


A Tinker, A Tailor, A Soldier's Things

by carolinablu85



Category: Justified
Genre: (Well... "Comfort". Justified-version of Comfort. AKA drinking), Angst and Humor, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Season 4, Team Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-15
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-01 14:26:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1045016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carolinablu85/pseuds/carolinablu85
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“Army don’t stay with you forever.”<br/>“You sure about that?”<br/>“Not at all, kid. Not at all.”</i> </p><p>Tim is pulled between old and new, US Army and US Marshals, when a new case has ties to his former C.O.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Taking a break from my Six Crooked/Seven Sad universe :) My ongoing attempts to hold myself over until season 5 have produced... this. And in taking a break from Bob Dylan, title here comes from a Tom Waits song. Enjoy!

_What are you gonna do when you get out?_

_That's so optimistic of you, Staff Sergeant._

_Fuck you, Gutterson, I'm a ray of sunshine._

_Oh yeah. The brightest._

_So what are you gonna do when you get out?_

_Maybe I won't, maybe I'll be career._

_Kid, 'career' is just brass speak for fucking desk duty. That doesn't sound much like you, does it?_

_No._

_Think you might start a family, get a nice job, a 401K, buy a house, coach Little League?_

_Any of those sound more like me?_

_Not at all. But you gotta start thinking about these things, Gutterson. It's gonna come up on you faster than you think, and you'll be on your own. These guys and these rules don't help you when you're out. Army don't stay with you forever._

_You sure about that?_

_Not at all, kid. Not at all._

***

"You're all here with two minutes to spare. I'm both pleased and suspicious," Art breezed through the door to the conference room, eyeing his three on-duty deputies closely.

Raylan leaned back lazily in his chair. “Anybody else think that was directed mostly at me?”

“Yep,” Tim and Rachel answered together, neither of them looking up from the files they were reading.

Art prefered just a look- his best ‘are you stupid?’ just for Raylan, only ever for Raylan- and then got down to business. “Today’s contestant is Daniel Foster. Forty-two, born and raised in what I’m sure was a lovely little town in Vermont, but who gives a shit. He’s spent better part of the last eighteen years doing hired wetwork, completely undetected. Wasn't until last week that anyone even got an ID on him- his most recent hit was local, _and_ had a witness, who’s been placed under our WITSEC care until he can be found and put away.”

“Eighteen years?” Rachel echoed.

“Right after Desert Storm.” Art very pointedly didn’t look at Tim. “He’s also known as Sergeant First Class Daniel Foster. Regular Army. He’s still in the reserves, according to his records.”

Rachel didn’t look at Tim either. Raylan, of course, did. “Know him?”

Tim’s expression didn’t change. “Of course. We go to the same I Shoot People club. We’ve missed you at the meetings.”

“See, you had me till you said you missed me,” Raylan drawled right back, content with doing the talking he knew Art and Rachel were too tactful to try for.

Funny thing was- they all knew he was doing it. Even Tim. This was how their team operated, and Raylan really wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He’d gone and made himself a part of a well-oiled machine. They knew what they were doing. They knew what they were doing _together_. When had that even happened?

Art, meanwhile, didn’t seem too appeased by the lack of bite in Tim’s lazy reply. “The man hasn’t seen real action since the Gulf War, but he’s still in reserves. Shows up for the checkups, recertification, all that,” he said it slowly, like preparing Tim for some sort of diagnosis.

Tim just raised an eyebrow. “Guess those check-ups don’t have the ‘Sign here if you occasionally like to murder people’ box on ’em anymore? Shame.”

Raylan smirked; gotta admire the moxie of a guy who will remain so unconcerned in the face of Art’s real concern. Raylan wasn’t even sure it was warranted, though. Despite Rachel’s casual remarks that it had taken Tim some time to bounce back from shooting Boyd’s man- and Tim’s own friend getting killed just before- by the time Raylan got back from his suspension Tim’d seemed just fine to him. Not Normal-normal, sure, but Tim-normal? Definitely.

“Are you gonna make me ask outright if this case is gonna bother you?” Art went fully sincere, quiet.

Okay. Or maybe Rachel’s casual remarks did have some truth to them.

“You gonna make me answer outright?” Tim asked right back. It was quickly followed by a shrug. “He’s a bad guy, we catch bad guys, the end. If you’re gonna try checking on me every time we meet a vet on the wrong side of things, we won’t have time left to arrest anyone.”

True. Even though Raylan wasn’t a part of the conversation, he gave the point to Tim. Art looked like he was actually going to try another approach, so Raylan beat him to it. “We actually think Foster’s gonna go after the witness?”

If anything else, Rachel shot him a grateful look, so Raylan considered that his good deed of the day. With the meeting focused back on Foster, Raylan was able to relax again. Art being sincere made him twitchy. Because, thing was, it was Tim. There was no reason to worry. By the book, closed off, too much of a smartass for his own good- all Tim. Nothing to worry about.

“CID gonna get involved?” the guy in question asked.

“CID?” Raylan echoed. His own interactions with that group had been brief but unpleasant. (Though, a voice in his head pointed out, most of his interactions with any group tended to go that way. The voice sounded like Rachel and smirked like Tim. Raylan sometimes hated this well-oiled machine of theirs for invading his brain.)

“Guy’s still in reserves, gotta assume Army wants to cover their own asses. ’Specially since he's been showing up for recertification while doing this. And his weapon of choice is military grade,” Tim rattled off for the benefit of the room. 

Art nodded. “They’re due here any minute. Foster’s former NCO too, he’s been pulled in to consult on this thing.”

“And by consult, you mean these two are gonna muck up things and roadblock every move we make?” Raylan reinterpreted. Tim and Rachel both hid smirks, more so when Art sighed. The sigh was agreeing and reprimanding in the same breath.

“Play nice,” he snapped with only a little heat, his attention on the door to the main office. Raylan followed his gaze as two men walked in. They might’ve been wearing civilian suits, but they were military through and through. It was the set of the shoulders, the awareness walking into a new situation, cataloguing every sight and sound. Raylan recognized it from Tim.

He turned to Tim to make some crack along those lines, but stopped at the look on his face. It was… shock, maybe? “What’s wrong with you?” Raylan asked, getting Rachel’s attention on him too.

Tim shook his head. “Holy shit,” he mumbled, standing up and following Art, who was already greeting the newcomers. Raylan and Rachel exchanged a look of confusion and trailed after him.

“Holy shit!” one of the men- older, burly and commanding, the kind of guy who did one-armed pushups for fun- echoed Tim, though his tone was louder and delighted, getting nearly the whole office’s attention. He grabbed at Tim, grinning wide. “Shit, kid, what are you doing in Kentucky?”

Tim, to everyone else’s surprise, allowed himself to be pulled in, even returned the hug. Tim. _Hugged_ someone. On _purpose_. “Well, I work for a living,” he said, desert dry as always, but a hint of real… damn, was that actual friendliness in his tone? And familiarity, like it was a line he’d said to this guy before.

As if to prove that point, the man laughed, clapping Tim hard on the shoulder. “How’s your leg? Haven’t seen you since they carted you off in that helo, wasn’t sure if-”

“Through and through, it was fine,” Tim interrupted, realized he’d interrupted, and added a quick, “Staff Sergeant,” at the end to make up for it. Looking embarrassed by the whole thing.

Raylan had never been happier in this office.

“You’re a marshal now, huh?” The man was grinning wide. “That fits. That certainly fits.”

Art watched them both, an unreadable expression on his face. “Why don’t we take this into the conference room, or else I think some of my people’s heads might explode at the sight of Tim smiling.”

Tim still had the wherewithal to looking grumpy at that, but the lightness in his eyes stayed right there as the entire group settled back around the conference table.

Rachel bumped Tim’s elbow as they sat. “You’ve just reignited the gossip mill for at least the rest of the month, I hope you know,” she teased. He answered with his usual eye roll, then looked back and forth between Art and whoever his friend was, waiting for one of them to start. He didn’t seem to know which one to focus on.

Art sighed again. It was, funny enough, the same sigh he’d directed at Raylan before. “Command Sergeant Major Covey of CID and Staff Sergeant Declan of the U.S. Army are here to help us catch Daniel Foster. Gentlemen, these are Deputies Rachel Brooks, Raylan Givens, and Tim Gutterson. And are y’all gonna leave us guessing on this reunion, or...?”

The large man- Declan- was grinning again. “Gutterson was under my command in Afghanistan for a tour, maybe, huh, five or six years ago, kid?”

“Yessir.” Tim didn’t even balk at being called a kid. Raylan was so happy.

“You’re a combat vet?” Covey, the CID man, eyed Tim skeptically. Most people did when that fact came up, Tim never seemed bothered by it.

“One of the best snipers I ever had,” Declan was quick to defend, though. “Wasn’t for that injury, we wouldn’t have needed SEAL Team Six, is all I’m saying. Rangers would’ve gotten it done.”

Tim fixed Declan with a look eerily similar to the one he usually reserved for when Art told him he’d done a good job, but also managed to look pleased by it- maybe proud. This was becoming the best day of Raylan’s career. Another glance at Rachel told him she was just as giddy.

“Foster was also under your command at some point, correct?” Art brought everyone’s attention back to the meeting.

Declan nodded. “For all of ’91- the full Storm- and the few months training before that. Ran into each other on and off after that. Last contact I had with him was sixteen months ago at a rifle recertification. Much as it pains me to admit, I taught him everything he knows. If anyone’s going to know how he thinks, it’s me.”

“And you think he’ll go after the witness?” Raylan asked him and the room. Again. If it was him, he’d pack up and leave the state.

“A sniper leaves no trace behind,” he recited, sending a quick nod in Tim’s direction. “I figure one committing murder would be even more careful about that. No loose ends, that sort of thing.”

“We’re assuming someone hired him for the hit, that it wasn’t personal to him,” Rachel picked up another file, looking it over. “Does he have any connection to the victim?”

Art did that thing where he sighed without sighing- by look alone. “None that the assigned detectives could... detect.”

"If it was contract, there'd be no connection anyway," Raylan mused. "Victim piss anybody off lately?"

"More than a few," Art opened up another file. "Owed half a million dollars to half a dozen private businessmen."

"Two of them local," Rachel added, leaning to read over Art's shoulder. "Neither of them Dixie Mafia," she said for Raylan's benefit.

"The hell is Dixie Mafia?" Declan asked, warring between confusion and wanting to mock the name. Raylan decided he might really come to like this man.

"We sure he's working alone?" Tim asked casually, almost absentmindedly.

But Tim was never absentminded. Art focused on him sharply. "Meaning?"

Tim shrugged, aware of the eyes on him. "Partner. Spotter. Something. He's been making some fairly complicated shots, evaded being identified for eighteen years. Hard to do on your own."

"You could," Declan was grinning again.

Tim's eyes flicked over to him, almost smirking back. "Well I'm superior to most."

"There's never been any indication of a second man," Art cut back in.

Another shrug. "There's barely been an indication of the first."

Art considered it. "Foster play well with others?" he asked Declan.

Declan hesitated, thinking it over. "He was never exactly Sally Sunshine, but yeah. Got along with most, good in groups."

"He's superior to you there," Raylan muttered to Tim.

"He doesn't have to work with you," Tim fired right back.

Art waved them both quiet instinctively, and they both just as instinctively turned back to the case. "Can you make a list for us, possible buddies from back in the day who might still be his buddy now?" Art barely waited for Declan and the CID man to nod before checking his watch and pointing to Rachel and Tim. "Get the witness secured, and go over her statement again. Maybe she saw a partner without realizing. I won't rule it out yet."

They nodded, Tim standing to let Rachel exit first. He looked to Declan, who smiled again. _We'll talk later,_ the look said. Tim seemed a little relieved at that as he followed Rachel out. Raylan couldn't help but marvel at it, at a new side to Tim. One with actual, maybe even normal, emotions.

It was hilarious. And very weird.

The CID man- Raylan didn't bother remembering his name- excused himself soon after, and Raylan invited himself along when Art led Declan into his office. Where the bourbon was. After drinks were poured and chairs settled into, he turned to Declan. "How worried should we be about Foster?"

Declan took the question seriously. "Very. He's good. Always has been. Smart. Adaptable. Eagle eye." Then his smile was back. "Not quite the eye of Gutterson, but still. Good."

"Tim's really that good?" Raylan asked. He wasn't skeptical, and knew better than to insult an Army Officer and whatnot, but he was curious. And wanted to see how much the man would elaborate. Couldn't be blamed for that, right?

"He is," Declan was firm. "Or was when I knew him, at least. I suspect he's maybe even better now. 'Tim' and 'rusty' just don't go together."

Raylan and Art tipped their glasses in agreement. "You got to know him pretty well over there?"

"Over here first," Declan corrected. "Ft. Benning for a round of training. Then eleven months in Kandahar, Sangin... wherever they needed us."

"And he was the same grumpy son of a bitch with you that he is with us?" Raylan asked when Art didn't.

Declan laughed, hearty and fond. "Of course. It's not a new story with guys like us. Rangers, snipers, what have you. You have to be the right kind of crazy for it. Most of my boys are- _were_ ," he corrected himself this time. "Off. Shitty childhoods, adrenaline junkies, sob stories back home, all that."

"You know Tim's sob stories?" Art asked, somewhat quiet, somewhat casual. Raylan felt himself frown a little at the tone, confused. Art ignored the look Raylan sent his way.

Declan didn't seem to notice. "I know more than a little. As much as I need to." He shook his head. "It's a real shame, that kid's family."

Raylan looked back and forth between them now. "Do I even want to kno-"

"No," Art looked at him then, stern. "Because Tim wouldn't want you to."

Fair enough. Raylan nodded, drained his glass. He wagged it in front of Art, asking for another. Art scowled but complied, refilling all their drinks.

Declan inclined his head in thanks. "I wish I'd kept more in touch with Tim, with all those boys. Once you’re out, there’s no unit to back you up, not enough benefits to help you keep afloat... Not everyone fairs as well as Tim has."

"We know," Art frowned into his drink.

Declan studied him for a moment before realization hit. "Shit, that's right. Teilman died just a few weeks ago, didn't he?"

It took Raylan a second to connect the last name to Mark- Tim's shot up buddy. "You led him too?"

"Yeah. Shit. I should've said something to Tim. They ever caught the guy who did it?"

Art seemed to hesitate before admitting, "Tim did."

"And he's dead?" Declan guessed. At Raylan's nod, he chuckled. "No surprise there. He always gets shit done when it counts."

Art glanced at Raylan quickly before speaking. "It tore Tim up a bit- he knew the other guy. Another vet. We've been trying not to let him think too much on it, or think too much like a soldier. And we try not to treat him as such."

Declan just chuckled again, waved a hand as if to brush Art's concern away. "He's still the trigger finger around these parts, isn't he? So not too much in his head could've changed."

"Actually-"

"And besides," Declan talked over Art, "that's a good thing for you, especially on this case. Gutterson is the one you want behind the scope. Kid can turn off that soul thing so fast when he needs to."

"Soul thing?" Art repeated, jaw clenching a little. Raylan sank back in his seat a little, out of proverbial line of fire, watching.

"It's a valuable skill- when you don't have time to prepare yourself for the enemy being any..." another hand wave, "shape or size. Tim was one of those guys who never hesitated, always pulled. Never missed." Another grin, this one remembering something Art and Raylan would never be able to see or understand. "Damn fine trigger finger."

Raylan wondered what it said about the conversation that even _he_ was uncomfortable with that assessment. Tim was a grumpy son of a bitch, but he wasn't soulless. 

And then Raylan remembered his thoughts from earlier, how funny and alien it was to see Tim showing real emotion. 

Geat. Now he got to feel like shit on top of feeling uncomfortable.

***

“So.”

Tim kept his eyes on the road, his hand casual on the wheel. His eyebrow twitched. Maybe. Rachel couldn’t really tell- he was wearing sunglasses. But joke was on him, Rachel knew he only wore sunglasses when he wanted to hide from her.

“I’ve never seen you hug someone before,” she started with harmless teasing, laying some groundwork. Foundation. An apt metaphor- it was work connecting to Tim, building something that went higher than the walls he built himself.

“I hugged your ma last week,” he argued, voice just as light. Reminding her that they had a connection beyond work to tug at her loyalty. Volleying right back.

“No, she hugged you. You were just trying to fend her off, don’t front with me.” Her volley back- acknowledging that she knew him better than most, but reminding him nothing got past her. She was the smarter of the two of them. See? Work.

He conceded her joke and her point behind it with a barely-there smile. “Ask what you want to ask.” Readying his walls for a direct assault. Rachel just needed to build to the higher vantage point.

“He’s one of the good guys, right? Declan?” she asked.

Tim swallowed, nodded. “Always did right by me.”

That was a pretty big vouch from a guy like Tim. “He was your Art before Art?”

“No,” the answer was immediate, surprising her. “Those two are… not alike.”

“For better or for worse?”

“For neither,” Tim gave a quick little headshake, tried to explain. “Art’s a good boss. Good leader. But you can’t lead like him over there. ‘S too different.” He spared her a glance around his sunglasses. “Don’t you dare tell him I said he was a good boss.”

She smiled down at her lap so he wouldn’t see. Or maybe so he would. “Like he’d believe you said it.”

Another smile from him. “Sta- Declan. He got us through a lot of shit. Made sure he went through it with us. He was there to kick our asses, keep us sharp.” He tilted his head, listened to what she wasn’t saying, and explained. “There wasn’t always time for handholding and bourbon in the boss’s tent after a bad day. You don’t keep your head in the game, you or the guy next to you dies.”

Rachel twisted the ring on her finger- not her wedding ring (she gave it back to Joe), just a little band Nick had given her for Christmas- and said nothing. She hated that she could just never really picture what that life had been like for Tim. It was that one wall she’d never be able to climb. “You got hurt over there?” she asked instead. He had little scars on his back and chest- it was a small locker room- but nothing that seemed…

“My leg. Grenade hit nearby, took shrapnel to it,” he tapped his right thigh. Seemed pretty close to an artery, but Rachel didn’t ask. “It was fine. Little surgery in Germany, rehab stateside, then back over there.”

So it wasn’t the reason he left the Army. Rachel didn’t ask about that either. “You know any guys like Foster? Former military going… that route?” Weirdly enough, it felt like a safer subject to talk about.

“Yeah,” he answered simply, honestly. “Some guys can’t get it out of their heads when they’re back here.” Another smile, maybe going for reassuring. “None of the guys I know are smart enough or dumb enough to make it this far. Most do private security, protection, muscle work.” A shrug. “Maybe breaking fingers for bookies, but no triggers.”

“If they did, though. If we came across a Foster that you knew,” she hesitated. “Would you be able to put him down?”

He grinned slow and lazy. For show, she thought. “I’d like to think we’d be able to arrest him before that. I have faith in you, Rachel.”

“Shut up,” she smiled back, smacking his shoulder. And waited.

He didn’t disappoint. “I think I could.”

She moved her eyes away, giving him space. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She heard him swallow. “Better me do it than someone else. And at least… at least I’d trust myself to make it quick and perfect.”

 _Perfect?_ she didn’t echo it out loud. Didn’t want to, didn’t want to know what perfect meant to him. Mentally stepping back, “Did I tell you they want Nick on the school’s debate team?”

If she positioned herself just right, she could see his reflection in her window. She watched his smile get less lazy, more real. “No shit.”

“Apparently. It’ll be good for him, right? Extracurriculars?”

“Man, think about all the practice he can get, listening to his aunt and grandma argue at dinner.”

“Shut up,” she turned to smack him again. She was gaining on those walls, she knew it. It’d just take work.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Think of a really not-cliche way of saying "the plot thickens..." and pretend I said that here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jesus I wanted to post this like 2 weeks ago, sorry! I hate being an irregular updater. But, you know- holidays and being sick and an apartment move and Jacob Pitts blowing a fuse in my brain with his singing voice (holy SHIT his singing voice. you go, Gutterson)- it took a while to get back on track. But here I am! Thanks for reading :)

Tim listened with one ear as Rachel interviewed the witness again, the two of them sitting in the living room facing the backyard. The rest of his focus was on the windows, the door. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust the locals to secure everything, it was that he didn’t trust anybody. Especially Foster.

The small building across the street was all apartments- IDs and keys needed just to get in the lobby. Fine. But Foster wouldn’t set up there anyway, it was too close to the scene to make a clean getaway. Tim looked past the block they were on. Next best perch was an office building fifty meters away, give or take a meter. Tim scanned it slowly, carefully. 

There was a not-so-sudden fuzziness around the edges of his brain. A memory trying to break through, elbow for room in his scope. Brought on by… shit, brought on by everything. A military sniper. A high roof fifty meters away. Declan. Rachel’s not-so-subtle digging. Tim forced it back with a frown, glared at the stillness, at the roof, daring it- the whole building- to make a move.

It didn’t take the bait. Tim was just about to move to the next window at the corner of the house when he saw it. The flash. Not a spark, it was a reflection. Light glinting off of-

“Rachel!” he yelled, already heading for the nearest door. There was the sound of glass shattering, bullets hitting the far wall, but Tim knew Rachel would’ve started moving at the sound of his voice. He could hear her ordering the locals to cover the witness even as he got outside, running for the nest. He took the straightest course he could, aiming for the left side of the building, where emergency exits usually were. No way a hitter would take front or back doors, or the service entrances. More eyes and cameras there.

Tim pushed himself to run harder, pulling his gun free as he reached the corner, rounding it carefully. Just in time to see a black sedan disappear around the far side of the building, out of range. Shit.

Rachel was behind him a few seconds later, breathing hard, holstering her weapon when she saw him put his away. “Car?” she asked.

“No license plate,” he grunted, pissed off. “Witness?”

She waved a hand. “Fine. Covered. Thanks for the warning, bullet would’ve gone through me before it went through her.”

Which pissed him off even more. “We should get a team up to his nest on the roof, see what he left behind.” He’d gotten away too quickly, couldn’t have swept away everything in time.

Rachel nodded, pulled her phone free. “Art’s gonna be pissed. How’d Foster know we were here so fast?”

***

"How the hell did Foster know we were there so fast?" 

Tim and Rachel didn't react to the outburst that much, but Raylan took some perverse pleasure in seeing Declan and CID guy, whatever his name was, jump at the sound of Art's anger. 

"He was there and set up before Tim and I even got there," Rachel was just too grim right now to be startled by Art.

"How do you know that?" CID asked. "Maybe-"

"We weren't followed," Tim tag-teamed in for Rachel, glaring at the man. "There was no tail on us. I checked."

"What, you always check for tails when you drive around?" Raylan smirked.

Tim's glare lessened into something more relaxed, calm, just enough for Raylan to notice. His Raylan Glare. "What, you don't?"

Raylan had to concede that with a shrug. 'Course he did. Wasn’t paranoia if people really were trying to shoot you. "So then how did Foster find out?"

"He must be getting intel from somewhere," Art sighed, rooting through some folders. "My guess? Jeffrey Clideson." He pushed one of the folders towards the center of the table, face up. "One of our possible employers. Foster's target owed him close to two million dollars."

"But why him?" Declan asked, looking like he really wanted to be careful about not pissing Art off any further. "What would-"

Art tapped the folder, his little 'checkmate' smirk showing through. "Clideson owns the office building Foster shot off of today." He shook his head. "I've investigated this asshole before. He's smart, covers his tracks well. I'd really like to nail him and Foster with one stone if we can."

His 'dismissed' was unspoken, but Raylan felt it nonetheless. He stood to leave. And would have, until he noticed that Declan wasn't moving. He was frowning, in fact, still looking at the folder. "Tim," he said casually, stopping Tim and Rachel in the doorway. "What did the nest look like?"

Raylan felt the air in the room change right then and there, though he couldn't exactly say where (who) it was coming from. Everyone in the conference room paused and looked to Tim.

Who was also frowning now, nodding to Declan as though confirming something. "Completely clean," Tim trailed off a little like maybe he wanted to finish with 'sir' or something and had to force himself not to. Which would've amused Raylan endlessly, except for the look on Declan's face right then. And the one on Art's. "No fingerprints, no casings, no footprints or anything."

Declan nodded back, grim. Grim like Rachel had been. "How do you think he cleared it so fast?"

Tim honest-to-God hesitated, glancing at Art, then turned to face the whole room with his shoulders squared. "It looked like a two belt job."

Raylan barely noticed the tone, reluctant and firm all in one. "Two belt?"

"Two man," Declan explained. "Foster had a spotter up there with him."

Rachel spun around to Tim, voice, face, everything sharp. "You think there's a partner?"

Tim was quiet for a moment again. Raylan couldn't tell if he was unsure, uncomfortable, or uneasy. Maybe all, maybe none. "It's possible."

"She didn't ask if it was possible," Art, who'd been halfway into his office, stepped back fully into the conference room. Raylan stayed where he was and watched. Watched Art direct all his attention at Tim. Watched Declan shift in his seat a little to put himself more between them.

Watched Tim watch all of this too.

Tim didn't move at all. He looked past Rachel, past Declan, past Raylan and CID, to Art. "I think he has a partner." Voice calm and quiet. Muted.

Declan turned to Art as well, talking smoothly. "If Dan's got a spotter, guy would be even more a ghost than he is. Could easily keep an eye on the witness without anyone even thinking to look for him. Could help break down and sweep up a nest before law enforcement could get to him." Declan waved a hand, a 'what have you' gesture. "We see it all the time."

Art kept a glare off his face, but just barely. "You see it all the time, do you?" He looked at Tim pointedly. Raylan, despite his firm decision not to care, felt a sliver of shock at that.

And there was just enough time for Raylan to see a twinge to Tim's jaw- his version of a flinch- before Rachel not-so-subtly stepped in front of him. "Could be that Clideson hired two of them," she posited, smooth as Declan but in a very different way and reason. "He makes enough to loan someone two million, he makes enough to hire a two man team." She shouldered Tim back a few more inches. "Maybe everyone's got the right idea here."

If Raylan wasn't so goddamn confused, he would have made some comment about Rachel's mama bear routine, and Tim's complete cluelessness to it. But he was that goddamn confused, so he kept quiet. Kept still too, just in case Art's weird mood swings decided to swing in his direction.

Luckily, it went back to Declan instead. "You got that list for me yet?" Art's voice was tight, controlled. "Potential... spotters?"

Declan stayed completely cool. Almost friendly enough for Raylan to believe he had no idea at Art was even pissed off. "Covey and I got six right here." He nodded to CID, who passed a paper over. "These were his buddies in the Sandbox, the ones who haven't been on any radar since."

Art took the paper after a second's pause, and somehow, luckily- and Raylan was surprised that he was relieved for it- the tension in the room broke. "Tim," and his voice even sounded apologetic, "grab McKenzie and Dunlop, run these names. Anything sticks out to you, let me know."

Tim looked to Rachel- not Art, not Declan- then gave a quick nod. "Yeah." Rachel smacked him lightly on the shoulder as he left, following him out after a glance at Raylan.

CID guy- Covey? Raylan was so not gonna remember that- stood up next, clearing his throat, nodding to Declan, making a hasty retreat. Almost hasty enough to have Raylan grinning, the absurdity and tension of this whole meeting making him feel out of sorts. 

Declan stood more slowly, still cool and collected. "I'll run through my contacts again, ask them about this Clideson of yours, see if anything hits," he said it almost graciously to Art, but a little daring too. Challenging. 

Challenging for what, Raylan had no damn clue. He gave it a few seconds, one eye on Declan and Covey leaving the office, one on Tim and Rachel, and sighed. Very quietly. Really, it was barely a sigh. It wasn’t like Raylan cared about how weird that last fifteen minutes had been. It wasn’t like he had to do anything about it.

And yet.

He let himself into Art’s office, leaned against the door with his back to the rest of the marshals, smiling lazily. “So what was that about?”

Art didn’t look up at him, just frowned into the paperwork in front of him. “What was what about, Raylan?”

“Is this jealousy?” he kept the grin, gesturing at the air around Art. “Are ya jealous Tim has a new dad?” Art’s frown seemed to deepen impossibly, enough to startle a little of the tease out of Raylan’s expression. “What’s going on, Art?”

He took a few more seconds to ruffle through his folders, then held out one paper to Raylan, face unreadable once again. “Locals think they got a sighting of the getaway car abandoned outside of Lexington, take Rachel and see if there’s anything to it.”

Raylan stayed where he was, not reaching for the report. “Why don’t you have Tim take Rachel and see. For starters, I don’t really want to go, and secondarily- they’re the ones who saw the car to begin with.” And Rachel was probably best to deal with Tim right now- not Art or anyone else in this office. Maybe not Declan neither.

Art didn’t even twitch. “I’m sending you.”

Raylan wasn’t sure whether to laugh or sigh, and really wished he wasn’t getting himself involved in this by asking the next question, “What, are you punishing Tim for backing up Declan’s idea?”

“Raylan-”

“ _Art._ ”

Still not a twitch, a tick, nothing. “Tim was almost shot, again, by an Army vet. Again. Third time is as many months.”

He forced himself to look as unconcerned and indifferent as possible. “You know, there was a time where he was getting shot at every day, remember?”

Art stared him down, some hardness coming in again. “He’s not supposed to now. None of you are, _remember_?” Art shook his head, suddenly looking… his age, now that Raylan thought about it. And that made him uncomfortable. “I want to know, for myself, where his head’s at before I just send him out for this case.”

Fair enough point, but Raylan had one better. He tapped idly on the glass wall as he eased out into the office. Got into a position to make a hasty retreat of his own. “You don’t think benching him will mess with his head?” And he got out before Art could come back with the last word. 

***

Tim was pretty much exhausted by the time he got home that night. Putting up a front of cool and calm boredom at the office was fairly routine by this point- he could do it almost literally in his sleep. But today had required like four different fronts- four different faces- and it was harder to juggle than he thought it’d be.

Normal face for the regular office, one for Rachel and Raylan- they knew him just a little bit better, one for Art (and what the hell was up with him?), and one for Declan. And how weird was it to refer to him as Declan and not his rank? Pretty fucking weird, thank you very much. 

There was a lot of weirdness going on right now.

Tim’s apartment seemed to agree with him right then, because he knew something was off the moment he got inside. A curtain was pulled different? A chair was moved? Something. He went still by the front door as it shut behind him. His hand strayed towards his gun-

“Don’t.”

Tim didn’t. His eyes narrowed, glare melting away into a nothing. Not pushing. Ready. Both hands visible.

He knew the drill.

Also, he was a pretty cynical bastard. So when Daniel Foster himself appeared, easing out from the living room with a gun pointed at Tim, he wasn’t all that surprised. “Sergeant.”

Foster twitched, everything but his gun hand. “Here.” He gestured with the gun, a really nice Glock, directing Tim deeper into the apartment.

Tim walked slowly, every move deliberate, keeping an eye more on Foster than his gun. Looking for a cue, an indication of what he was doing. An opening, maybe. Something. Tim’s gun and cellphone weighed a little heavier against his hip now, useless.

Foster was still twitching, and he kicked a chair in Tim’s direction. “Sit.”

He sat and waited. Watched Foster pace back and forth in front of him for a couple very long seconds. He waited some more.

And he didn’t flinch when Foster pushed the gun into his face. “How much do you know?”

Tim kept from glaring, from any expression. From tipping something or giving anything away. He was good at faces, wasn’t he? “I’m not telling you where we moved the witness.”

Foster blinked quickly a few times, then shook his head, laughing rough and deep in his throat. “Nothing.”

He couldn’t help but frown a little then, confused. Foster was carrying on a conversation all by himself. And still twitching. “Why’d you come to me?” How did Foster even know who he was? Or maybe he didn’t?

Foster shook his head again. “I trusted the wrong people. ’S harder than it looks.”

“What is?” Tim spoke slow and bland. With a start, recognizing his own tone, he realized who Foster reminded him of in this moment. Mark. Mark at his worst with the oxy- not strung out, more like shredding apart.

Foster was making these shots while hooked on something? Jesus.

“You don’t know who they are,” Foster mumbled. “I thought you did. I thought you knew.”

“Who’s your spotter?” Tim tried a different tactic, framing his question, his whole being, into a commanding officer. An order, something to focus Foster. And focus himself- who the hell were ‘they’?

Foster laughed again, leaving Tim to grit his teeth and hold still. He was high on what-the-hell-ever, everything but the gun hand moving erratically, and Tim could see the safety was off. Motherfucking shit. He shifted a little in his chair, but it only got Foster more nervous. “Don’t move,” he skittered back a foot or two, off to the side, almost out of Tim’s field of vision. He started to turn his head to follow the movement, but Foster shoved with the gun again. “Don’t. Fucking. Move.”

“Okay. Fine,” Tim spoke through his gritted teeth. Not moving. “You working with a group of people, is that it?” 

“Don’t you?” Foster asked right back.

Motherfucking… Had Foster come to him because he was Army? Shit, was somebody at Declan’s hotel room too, doing this same thing? Shit. “What do you think I’m a part of?” he tried again. “If you give me something, anything to work with, Marshals office will probably-”

But apparently Foster wasn’t here looking for deals. And was very insulted that Tim had tried. Quicker than Tim had been expecting, the gun swung close again. Well, closer than close. Foster didn’t pull his strength at all, clubbing Tim on the back of the head. Tim’s world went dark before he had the time to curse it once again.

***

Raylan reminded himself he probably shouldn’t be grinning as he climbed out of his car. He reminded himself he should probably be more concerned than he was.

And then he reminded himself that if Tim had wanted concern, he wouldn’t have called Raylan for a ride. 

“He didn’t even tie you up?” he drawled, joining Tim by his truck. A truck that was listing to the side a little, weirdly. Raylan did take a moment to study Tim, look for bruises or blood. But he’d been hit on the back of the head, and given his normal… surliness, Raylan couldn’t see anything amiss. Good enough. Besides, he'd had a whole night to sleep it off. And Raylan was driving this morning. So if anything, Rachel couldn't yell at him for not helping.

“Knocked me on the head and slashed two of my tires,” Tim grumbled, in that tone he used when he was just annoyed about the weather. No big deal. “I think that’s enough.”

“How’d he know where you live?” Raylan crouched down to examine the tires. Well, that explained the truck’s lean.

“That’s something I’d really like to find out,” he heard Tim mutter behind him.

“And in his ramblings, accused you of being part of the conspiracy,” he stood up again, dusting his hands off on his jeans for no reason. "Didn't even know there _was_ a conspiracy."

Tim shrugged. "There is now."

Raylan had to agree. "I called Declan's hotel on my way over here. No incidents reported last night." He may have only imagined Tim relax at that, but he was pretty sure it was real. "Guess you're just special." Declan had said Tim was one of his best shooters...

Yet the shooter himself just rolled his eyes, huffed, moved towards Raylan's car. "I'm honored. The conspiracy owes me two truck tires."

He chuckled and followed Tim's silent request to the car, and followed the silence too. They'd been driving for a few minutes before he broke it. "You think there's any truth to it, though? You believe Foster at all?"

Tim shifted a little in his seat. "He's an addict. Addicts'll say anything." And that was that.

Raylan really didn't think that answered his question at all. But fine, okay. Moving on. "You gonna tell Art about your new friend? Or tell your old friend about your new friend?"

He was quiet just long enough for Raylan to decide he wasn't gonna answer. Which was when he did. "If I tell one, gotta tell the other." His voice was a grumble, that annoyance again. That fake annoyance that probably masked a genuine... something. Raylan wasn't sure he'd seen Tim be genuine enough times for him to know exactly what Tim was feeling.

"Bugs you, doesn't it," he said instead. "That they don't get along." _And you're the reason for it._

Tim grinned somewhat, dark and knowing. Hearing the part Raylan hadn't said out loud. "Can't do anything about it, though."

"Still," Raylan was rather good at sounding like he didn't give a shit. "Can't be fun."

He didn't want to give anything else away, not that Raylan expected him to. And yet, "I owe Declan a lot," he murmured, almost more to himself than to Raylan. Raylan nodded, figured now was a time to say nothing. "So." More silence. Raylan had a vague notion of Tim needing to recharge after speaking a certain amount of words. "I don't know. I can't just..."

"Yeah," Raylan made the last turn into the parking lot of the courthouse. "No one's saying you have to, you know."

Tim just smiled again, shook his head, one or two quick movements. "Don't think most people here care either way. This is just my head." My problem. "'S fine." He was out of the car before Raylan had finished parking. "Thanks for the ride."

Raylan sat there for a moment longer. And reminded himself again- Tim didn't need his concern.

***

"Are you gonna tell me what the hell's bothering you?" Rachel gave it five minutes before snapping.

Raylan looked over at her briefly and- luckily for both of them- didn't try to play dumb. "I'm trying to pinpoint when it was that I became Lassie."

"Lassie," she echoed skeptically, ready to snap at him again. The morning had been tense enough already in the office, she didn't need it in a car ride too.

Raylan took his hat off, put it back on. Uneasy. "I think little Timmy might be falling down the well."

Rachel blinked. What? "What?"

"You know that feeling you'd get before a mine caved in, or before a storm started, or-"

" _I'd_ get?" Rachel wondered if she should pull over to figure all this shit out.

"Not _you_ -you," Raylan almost groaned, played with his hat again. "Just... something's gonna happen. Of the 'oh shit' and 'not good' and 'bloody violence' variety."

Timmy falling down the well. "Art and Tim?"

He nodded. "Second outing in a row he's sent us and benched Tim."

Okay. Rachel did pull over then, sitting back in her seat with a sigh. She'd noticed it too, but it must've been really bad if even _Raylan_ was working up the energy to comment on it. She watched the traffic drive past them for a bit. "It could be nothing," she made an attempt.

"Could be," Raylan was even humoring her. Definitely not a good sign.

"I mean," another sigh, "Tim was really off this morning. Quieter than usual. Maybe Art just..." she trailed off, catching Raylan's not-wince. "Shit. What happened that I don't know about?"

Raylan held up both hands quickly, pointing one towards her. “Just you remember, I had nothing to do with it. I’m a bystander. Hell, I’m technically a Good Samaritan. Not-”

“For God’s sake, Raylan, I swear I’ll-” she pointed right back at him.

“Foster was in Tim’s apartment last night when he got home.”

Rachel sat very still, waiting for the words to re-order themselves and make sense. “Foster.”

Raylan nodded carefully. “Tim thinks he was going through withdrawal or something. Thought Tim was ‘in on it’ or some shit.”

“In on what?” she snapped. She was using her ‘interrogating a backcountry hick’ voice and didn’t even care. “Did he attack Tim? Did Tim report it? Is that why Art benched him?”

Raylan’s silence was pretty much the opposite of comfort. “Well, you know Tim…”

“ _Shit_ ,” she cursed, letting it sound as harsh in her throat as possible. Tim wasn't gonna do a goddamn thing. At least, nothing he couldn't do on his own. Glaring at Raylan now, “Yeah, I do know Tim. And you do too. Because despite what you say and how you act, we’re a team. We all are. And if he’s going to be getting in trouble, or danger, we need to do something.”

“Jesus, Rachel, this isn’t an episode of iCarly,” Raylan rolled his eyes, but Rachel noticed he didn’t exactly disagree with her. “If it’s Tim’s problem, we gotta let him take lead on figuring out how to fix it. It ain’t up to us.”

“Raylan-”

“He needs my help, he’ll get it,” Raylan interjected smoothly before she could work up another lecture. “Foster wasn’t looking to kill him, so there’s that. And with the weird bullshit going on between his two daddies right now, I’m willing to give him a day to sort his head out first before proceeding.”

“Shiiiiit,” she cursed again, letting it slowly with her breath this time. She really goddamn hated when Raylan was right. Another beat of silence, more traffic passing them by, and then she shook her head. “I don’t understand it all, though. Art’s theory is looking more and more right. We’re getting a paper trail leading directly from Clideson to Foster. The money transactions match up to each account. There’s no money being paid to a partner. I don’t…” 

What sucked was that there wasn’t one tiny little piece of the puzzle missing. There were like eight, all big giant important pieces. They were too far behind on this thing still, and it was just getting more tangled up. Rachel didn’t like it.

Speaking of… “And I’m not sure we’re gonna get this guy to rights if Art and this Declan guy really start to clash.”

“Don’t think it's Art who Declan’s really after,” Raylan mused, trying to hide his words behind that lazy, too-thick drawl. 

But Rachel caught it anyway. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Raylan shrugged. Too casual, too light. Rachel didn’t have the heart to point out she could see right through it. “The man kept talking about how Tim was one of his best. You don’t think he’d love to have Tim back in the Army with him?”

She’d almost turned the car back on until that. She spun back around to Raylan. “What?”

He grimaced, pursing his lips a little. “I don’t know. You don’t think it’s possible? With all the shit that’s happened lately?”

“With all the shit that’s happened lately, that Tim would go back into the shit that caused a lot of it?” she snapped, letting anger mask an unexpected fear.

Raylan just looked back at her, almost calm, almost hesitating. Like maybe he didn’t want to upset her. With the truth. And when the hell had Raylan Givens become _tactful_? “Well, you know Tim…”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The shit hitteth the fan.

“Why am I not surprised,” a voice called out, breaking Tim’s concentration but not his rhythm. He kept at it, methodically snapping every piece together, muscle memory completing the routine by bringing the rifle up to his shoulder. Declan’s grin appeared in the scope’s view for a brief second. “Morning maintenance?”

Tim set the rifle across his lap, smiling a little, nodding for Declan to go ahead and sit in the lawn chair he’d dragged out here a few weeks ago. “How’d you find me?”

Declan sat and gestured for Tim to get back to his rifle. “Asked around for the long ranges. Figured I’d try the one that was the most run down and least populated.”

“Touché,” he murmured, breaking the rifle down again, putting each piece back in its case efficiently, carefully (lovingly). “So. _Why’d_ you find me?”

Declan respectfully waited until he was done to speak. “Wanted to ask for your advice,” he settled back in the chair. Always so calm, so ready for everything.

It made Tim twitch a little, him coming to _Tim_ for something. “Yeah?” he asked, uneasy, maybe awkward. (Colt had asked him for advice once, too.)

And it must’ve been how Declan had expected him to react, because the grin widened. “I’ll admit, kid, while there are a thousand and one things I’m better at than you, investigations aren’t one of them. That list of possible spotters I gave your Chief- I want to look into those guys myself. I figure an Army guy asking questions won’t tip any fuckers off who might be wary of law enforcement.” His nod to Tim almost startled him- he had to remind himself that he _was_ law enforcement and not Army. Not anymore.

How fucking weird was that?

But he shook that off and considered Declan’s words. “You’ll have to check latest known associates. Paper trails- if they have a steady income and place of residence. You’d need a warrant to check bank accounts or medical records, but if they _are_ still in the service, you-”

“Might find a way around that, right.” Declan nodded again, slapped Tim on the shoulder. “Rules and regs for every walk of life, it seems. You ever miss ours?”

A loaded fucking question. That felt like a loaded fucking gun. Tim took his time answering. “Here and there.”

Which just brought out a chuckle from Declan “Quite the diplomatic answer. You learn that in the Marshals?”

Tim gave a quick smile, commiserating, still feeling awkward. Like he was being tested. “Have to deal with real people now, sir. Sometimes fake answers get you the best results.”

Another teasing shove to his shoulder. “Since when am I ‘real people,’ Gutterson?”

Tim was too preoccupied with realizing he’d just admitted to Declan that his answer was fake to respond to the teasing. He was known in the Lexington office for being straightforward, but for him it was a practice of deflection. Just because he had no patience for (Raylan’s) bullshit, didn’t mean he wanted to be all that brutally honest or forthcoming about himself.

But he was honest with Declan. Always had been. He owed the man at least that much.

And maybe the man sensed his sudden wariness, going back to the topic at hand. “I get any relevant intel with my ‘investigating,’ I’ll get it to you straightaway.”

Tim shook his head. “I ain’t lead on this case. It’d be better if you took it right to Art.” And Declan’s visible hesitation just made Tim that much more unsettled. “What?”

Declan shook his head right back. “We both know he doesn’t like me much, Gutterson. Whether it’s because of the case or because of you, I don’t know. But it’s obvious he doesn’t.”

Tim frowned, shoving feelings aside. “Doesn’t matter. Art’ll still do the job right. He wouldn’t let personal shit get in the way.”

“Really?” Declan eyed him skeptically, bordering on sadly. “Then why’s he been sending your two partners out on every lead and keeping you at a desk?”

Tim was just sitting there, but he still felt like he’d been interrupted, startled. “It’s not-”

“It’s noticeable, Gutterson,” Declan was still sad for him, sounding like he was breaking bad news. A terminal diagnosis. 

Tim felt his face go hot, even though he knew he wasn’t blushing. He _knew_ it was noticeable. He knew everyone in the office sensed it. Saw it. Art was benching him.

The thing was- Tim was already behind everyone else. He hadn’t gone to college. He was the youngest. He was the least experienced. Half the office treated him like a time bomb about to go off. The other half just thought he was weird. 

He was the sniper, up high and out of sight. Apart from everyone. He didn’t make his shots like Raylan, with an audience. Or make his arrests like Rachel, with crazy-good intuition and people skills. He kept his head down and worked hard. He thought Art liked that about him.

But Art was benching him.

It bothered him. It bothered him that Art, after all his ‘I trust you, you can trust me’ and ‘I give you shit because I care,’ didn’t… whatever. It bothered him that Rachel and Raylan either didn’t care or agreed with it. That it was so obvious that even Declan could see it. That Declan didn’t mind pointing it out, because why should it be upsetting? They weren’t Tim’s team in his eyes.

Christ. It made his head hurt. His face hadn’t twitched at Declan’s words, so there was no reason to school it to anything. He just shrugged, stood with a stretch and a roll of his shoulders, picking up his bag. “Yeah, well.”

Declan followed suit. “It’s not like I agree, kid, you know that. You _were_ my marshal office, or whatever metaphor have you. I have no reason to doubt you’re not still the weapon you were then. Sharp eyes, sharp mind. Everyone knows that.”

 _Everyone?_ Tim didn’t echo out loud. He set off for the range’s exit, slow enough for Declan to walk with him.

“You put down Teilman’s killer, didn’t you?” Declan kept talking, too. Tim wasn’t sure if he wanted Declan to keep it up or shut up. “Mullen said you were having troubles with it, but I’m telling you right now, kid- you shouldn’t. You did what you were supposed to do, what any of us would have done. You did good.”

So Art was telling people that Tim was fucked up from the Colt thing? How many people in the courthouse were talking PTSD behind his back? _You shouldn’t do that vigilante shit alone, Tim. It worries me._ Isn’t that what Art had said to him about Mark and all of it? Tim just nodded now, walking past Declan’s car towards the road.

“You walked here?” Declan guessed. Didn’t ask where Tim’s truck was. “Need a lift to that office?”

Not ‘your’ office. ‘That’ office. Tim’s head really fucking hurt. And it had (mostly) nothing to do with the near concussion from Foster. Maybe Rachel’s ma was right. Maybe he did need a vacation.

He just needed something here to give.

***

“You know they used to run patrols for days on end, maybe a couple hours of sleep the whole time?”

“I heard they got ambushed in some village and it was just those two and one other guy that held them off a whole day. Nothing but Declan’s smarts and Gutterson’s rifle.”

That stopped Art in his paper-worked tracks. He kept his eyes on his files, but sharpened his ears on MacKenzie and Pardillo by the coffee machine.

“It’s insane how they do shit like that, right? Rangers. What kind of crazy do you have to be, you know?” MacKenzie had a headshake of wonder in his tone.

“Something none of us will ever know,” Pardillo said with all the wisdom he could muster.

“Wouldn’t want to.”

“Well, that’s what makes them ‘them’ and the rest of us ‘us’,” Pardillo pointed out.

Art got up. shutting his office door with something just short of a slam. Not loud enough to get the whole place’s attention, but enough to let those nearby spread the word that he wasn’t in a genial mood today.

He was in a bad goddamn mood actually, thank you very much. His digs into Clideson were going nowhere now, the guy closing up his ranks faster than Art could break through. Raylan and Rachel had hit two dead ends tracking the car Tim had spotted. And, worryingly, the marshals in the office seemed to think Tim wasn’t one of ‘us’. Not even thinking it maliciously. Just did.

And more worryingly- part of that was Art’s fault.

It was just… he was worried about Tim. Since his friend died, that Rhodes asshole, and now Declan? He was concerned. He’d been keeping Tim’s PTSD quiet for a long time now, and he’d be damned if he let Tim drown in it now. So maybe he was extra cautious at the moment. Not a goddamn thing wrong with that impulse.

He couldn’t seem to control it, though. And that pissed him off too. It felt, shamefully enough, like when his oldest girl first got engaged. Someone new suddenly showing up and taking away his family. And Art couldn’t even be sure if it was for better or worse. But he didn’t like it. He didn’t trust it. He didn’t like losing his people.

Not that he ever wanted any of these ungrateful, incompetent assholes to know that.

Art rubbed a hand once, real quick, over the top of his head. Raylan was the one who pointed out that he did that when he was frustrated with something. Art had pointed out that of course Raylan would notice that- Raylan was the one who usually frustrated him.

But Raylan was also way more observant than most gave him credit for. And he’d been the first to call Art out on his current irrationalities.

He was probably right, too. It wasn’t like Tim was gonna choose his old life over his new one. Right? There was no way. Unless…

Unless, Art cautioned himself as he watched Declan and Tim enter the office, obviously having ridden to the courthouse together, Declan had more intentions than just helping out on a case. If he was doing something for the Army too. If he was trying to take Tim back with him. 

Shit.

***

He took his time dialing, a breath between each number as if it made the process more important. Or undetectable. He wasn’t sure which. He started talking as soon as the line picked up. “Hey, I need a fav-”

“Thank God for Caller ID, otherwise I’d never believe Tim Gutterson was calling me twice in one month,” she was grinning, he could tell

He rolled his eyes. “First time I called was just to check in. This time I need a favor.”

“A favor only someone at the FBI can help you with?” she guessed.

Tim hunched his shoulders some, turning away from the rest of the office. “Something like that. We’re chasing a hitter still in the Reserves, and-”

“That’s internal Army then, Tim. I can’t do anything. You have to go through CID,” Sarah sounded confused. “You know that.”

“Already done. CID is here. And Staff- and Ben Declan,” he near-whispered the name as though it might conjure Art or the man in question to his desk.

“Declan? The Declan you and Jeremy served under?” Sarah’s brother had been one of Tim’s first friends in Ranger School, and one of the few he was happy to keep in contact with after everything. Getting a friend out of his sister- as well as a friendly (i.e. rare) link to the FBI- had been a bonus. Like now. “How’s that going?”

“Fine,” he not-answered. “But I need someone outside all this to look into a… theory.”

“Oh God, Gutterson’s got a theory,” he could hear her tapping away on her computer though, so he decided not to complain about her tone. “Okay, lay it on me. What can I do?”

“There might be a…” Tim stopped, started again. “ I think there might be a network.”

The typing stopped. “Of professional hitters. A network? Organized and, and-”

“And far-reaching?” Tim finished for her, keeping his voice down. “Yeah. I’m thinking maybe.” He sighed, hunched in some more. “I think mostly military, but can’t be sure. And… I don’t know. They have to recruit new guys somehow, right? Guys keeping the kind of low profile you feebs would know something about.”

“Aw, quit sweet-talking me, I’m gonna get all flushed,” Sarah through back half-heartedly, her focus on her computer. “Okay. You email me the details, I’ll see what I can do. Time sensitive?”

He copied some files, opening up his email. “As much as anything is, I guess. I’m,” Tim stopped again, unsure of how much to disclose over the phone.

“Talk to me,” Sarah knew what the hesitation was.

He almost sighed. “The guy we’re chasing knows Declan from way back when.”

“You think Declan will try to go after him on his own?” she guessed.

Guessed incorrectly, for once. “I think the hitter might go after Declan if he recognizes him down here,” he admitted. “Ranger NCO getting killed on marshal watch wouldn’t be, uh, good.”

There was a pause on her end this time. “Definitely not good,” she agreed in her ‘placate the crazy guy’ voice. “You know, if you’re not comfortable having your name bandied about, I could get Jeremy to ask some questions on the military side of things with whatever I find. Keep you clear as long as possible?”

 _Foster already knows my name, face, and address,_ is what he didn’t say. “Good. Thanks,” is what he did.

Another pause, this one sending a red flag straight to Tim’s brain. “You okay, Gutterson? Something’s off.”

“I’m always off,” he drawled.

“No, you’re always on. You need an off. You need to shut off and recharge sometimes before you burn out,” Sarah muttered. “Goddamnit, I hate metaphors.” More muttering under her breath. “Okay, got your email. I’ll do some quiet digging.”

“Real quiet,” he warned. “Be careful.”

“Of course. Nice deflections, by the way. So you’re not all right, it seems.”

“Look at the time, I gotta go,” he went back to the drawl, knowing it irritated her.

“Jesus, Gutterson, you really worry me,” she sighed, just enough sincerity coming through to make him feel uncomfortable.

“Quit it. I’m fine,” he went for casual, and he almost flinched when a familiar shadow crossed his desk. Hoping his face looked as casual as his voice, Tim looked up at Rachel, perfectly innocent. “Gotta go. Call me if you find something.”

“Why, what’s- is it Rachel? Hey, tell her-”

Tim hung up fast, eyes still locked with Rachel’s. “What?” he finally grunted.

Her eyebrow raised, slow and Spock-like. “Sarah say hi?”

“No,” he looked away first, back to the computer screen in front of him. He typed a few letters, for show mostly, but it didn’t seem to work. Rachel was still standing there. “Again, what?”

She softened (immediately putting him on edge) and took the seat across from his desk. “You wanna talk about any of this?”

“The case?” he played dumb. “No new leads. What’s there to talk about?”

“Is that why you called the FBI?” Rachel, of course, just played smart. “You don’t have to share with the whole class, Tim, but at least share with me.”

And he almost did. But, “What’s that make you, my lab partner?” He didn’t like metaphors either. And he really didn’t like that Rachel was more Raylan’s partner than his right now. The whole office felt… unfamiliar. Like wearing somebody else’s clothes.

She smirked a little. “I ain’t exactly your prom date,” she could put on as annoying a drawl as he could. “Your loss, of course.”

He offered half a smirk in return, partly because he didn’t want to encourage her, partly because he was just that fucking tired of putting up his fronts. He didn’t know which one he was supposed to give Rachel now. “’Course.”

Rachel regarded him silently for just a few seconds too long. “Just because you _can_ handle a situation, doesn’t mean you should have to,” she shrugged. “Alone, I mean. You know got me, right?”

_You need anyone to talk to- -I got Rachel -You got Rachel._

It had been true then. Said as a joke, but still true. But now? Now even Declan knew she was partnering up with Raylan. Made sense, Tim supposed. The two marshals most likely to get promoted should partner up. Tim was just…

Fuck, it all made his head hurt.

So he just put up another smile, another front. At least for now. “Sure. I know.”

It wasn’t like he’d ever win an Oscar. Rachel’s face confirmed that, falling a little, smile slipping away. “Yeah. Good. Well, I’ll…” she stood and went back to her own desk. Leaving a weird, heavy silence around Tim’s.

He glanced at the office, at each person. Maybe they all saw what Declan did. He was in the wrong place. He was a headcase. He was the Soldier Boy and the sniper. Art would probably keep him benched until the next time they needed someone shot between the eyes.

Huh. Put like that… How different was he from Foster?

***

Rachel did _not_ like this feeling. This office was supposed to be all sarcasm, good-natured ribbing, and talking business. Now it just felt… off. And the goddamn trouble with men was that they’d talk straight about anything but their feelings. Tim wasn’t going to go to Art and complain about this. Art wasn’t going to go to Tim and reassure him. Raylan wasn’t going to show any of them that he gave a damn.

The trouble with goddamn men. Some of the best men she knew, men she cared deeply for, her _family_ , and she was going to beat the shit out of each and every one of them. 

Case in point- Tim entered the office just then, having gone out for some lunch and coffee. He walked in with his head more or less looking down, cup of coffee in hand. And that was wrong. Tim always brought a few extra cups for people, it was part of his routine. But now he just went to his desk, shoulders curled towards his computer.

And that was another thing. Tim was sitting differently. He usually sprawled in his chair, better to observe the room at large, keep his eyes on the exits, all movement. Something ingrained, she’d always guessed. But now he sat hunched over, blocking everyone out. There was too much going on in his head, and now that she knew he was hiding a head wound too? Well, Rachel decided to take it upon herself to fix some of this bullshit.

Art looked up when she walked into his office and shut the door behind her. “Got a lead on something?”

“Oh, I think so,” she said sternly, crossing her arms. 

Art settled back in his chair, taking a deep breath. “I’m sensing this has nothing to do with the case.”

“Only a little,” she glared some. _You know damn well what this is about._ “At the risk of sounding like I’m running to the principal’s office, I’m worried about Tim.”

He only deflated a little bit, not as much as she expected. “You too, huh?”

She kept the glare, because really? She hadn’t come in here to commiserate. She’d come in here to lecture. “Art. You want to tell me what you think’s going on with my partner?”

Art glanced past Rachel towards the partner in question. Undoubtedly seeing what Rachel had seen, he sighed. “I think Declan is up to something with Tim. Trying to- to sway his loyalties, get him to re-enlist, something. I don’t know yet, but I smell something funny.”

“Sway his loyalties?” she repeated, incredulous. “Tim? You really think he doesn’t…” She couldn’t finish the thought. “Is that why you’ve been-”

“I think,” Art said slowly, “that enough shit has gone on the past year that Tim could be convinced to go back to the Rangers. I’m trying to find a way to keep more shit from raining down on him.” His jaw tightened suddenly, sharply. “And I don’t need to explain myself in this office. Understand?”

She wanted to argue, complain, and the Raylan part of her brain almost took over. But the Rachel part was already nodding and backing out of the office (she didn’t let go of the glare though, she still had some principles), and it wasn’t until she was back at her desk that she let out a sigh. The trouble with goddamn men, right?

 _Well, what would you do if you were in charge?_ she asked herself. If it were up to her…

Tim always seemed to know when she was approaching his desk, and his stony blank expression was already switched for a casual blank expression by the time she sat down across from him. No quip, no callback joke to the prom date, just waiting.

She shrugged. “Nick’s forcing us to go out for pizza again tonight. You free? Want to join us?”

Tim blinked at her. Blinked again. And she knew, she just knew, that he saw through it. That he knew it was a ploy, that he saw it as pity. “Rach-”

“Hey, kid, can I borrow you for an hour or two?”

They both looked up at the intrusion. Declan stood there, easy-going and almost apologetic. Tim swallowed, Rachel knew he was doing it to cover a hesitation, and raised an eyebrow. “What’s up?”

Declan smiled, looking excited. “An old buddy of mine- and Foster’s- is a few miles outside of Lexington. He’s a little… twitchy. About people with badges. But he’ll talk to me, and maybe you? If you want to come.”

Rachel frowned. Vets described as ‘twitchy’ made her twitchy. “Do you think he might know where Foster is?” she spoke first.

“Honestly?” Declan shook his head. “No. Didn’t sound that way. I figure he wouldn’t have even returned my call if that was the case. But it might be worth checking out, right?”

The shitty thing was- Declan was right. It was worth it. And Rachel didn’t want Tim to go, but there was no reason for him not to. Tim seemed to come to the same shitty conclusion. “I could take my lunch now,” he said carefully. He glanced at Rachel, so quick. Too quick, and by the time she could open her mouth to say… anything, really, he was standing up.

But there was still something there. Rachel stood up too, waiting, watching Tim grab his jacket. He hesitated again as he rounded the corner of his desk, coming up next to her. Like he was waiting for…? Was he waiting for her to say something? Protest? Say she didn’t want him to go? She wasn’t sure. He probably wasn’t either.

But he was gone and following Declan out the door before her brain could come up with anything. 

Which probably meant a ‘no’ on dinner plans.

***

The day after Rachel’s pity invite, Tim was almost ready to admit he should’ve gone to the dinner. It would’ve been a nice break from all the shit flying around. But right now, here he was- leaning against the back of his truck in an abandoned parking lot and watching Art and Declan argue.

“I know some women,” Raylan spoke slowly and lowly, leaning next to him, “who would love to have two men fighting over them.”

Tim pursed his lips, raised one eyebrow and then the other. “Show them a picture of the two fighting right now. They’ll change their minds.”

Raylan smirked, because he really only had, like, three default expressions around Tim. “What are they snapping about, anyway?”

He didn’t sigh. Nope. “Where I should set up.” They were moving the witness to a new location, and Art wanted Tim up high first, just in case. That, everyone agreed with. But where Tim’s nest should be was apparently a bigger piece of contention than whether or not Han shot first. 

He’d just about had enough of this.

Grabbing his rifle, he knocked it purposefully into Raylan’s shoulder. “When they run out of breath, let them know I’m on the roof just northwest of the safehouse.”

Still smirking, “Why Timothy Gutterson, are you breaking protocol?”

He reshouldered his rifle, using that motion to hide the shrug he wanted to give. “I’m supposed to inform a superior officer. Aren’t you and Rachel superior at this point?”

He had to give Raylan credit, the guy barely stuttered at that. Or reacted at all. “Only in looks.” He nodded towards a building to their left, kept talking before Tim could wonder if Raylan had just tried to say something _nice_ to him. “Go set up. I’ll monitor the cage match.”

“Northwest’s the other direction,” was all he said, slipping away.

He spent the walk up the stairs pushing it out of his head, getting back into the frame of mind he needed whenever he was holding a gun. Slowed and regulated his breathing, focused his eyes, his- “Shit. Again?”

Foster might’ve smiled at that, but it was too quick for Tim to be sure. “Knew you’d pick this spot. Snipers like us, we think alike.”

“Oh, we’re buddies now? That mean you’ll replace the tires you slashed on my truck?” Tim fought against the instinct to pull out his .45 or raise his rifle. Foster was still shaky looking, but his gun was already raised. And pointed at Tim’s chest. 

“I had to see if you were with them,” Foster insisted. 

Tim narrowed his eyes, shuffled his feet a few inches back. Somewhere he could find cover if he needed it. He had a feeling this meeting wouldn’t go as well as the last one. “So it is a network.”

Foster twitched and jerked the gun. Tim stayed still. “It’s not what you think.”

“Yeah? Then tell me what it is,” another short step back. His radio was in his pocket, no way to reach it before Foster could fire on him. “Who’s in charge of all this?”

Foster laughed, that same laugh as last time, that dark and hopeless laugh. “Kid, you can’t just…”

“More than one guy works a job, doesn’t he?” Tim started talking fast, trying to keep up with his thoughts. “That’s how you got away so quick before. How the nest was clean. It wasn’t just a spotter, you had… were you even driving the car? Or still up on the roof?”

Another twitch. “Smart. How’d you know?”

Tim shrugged. “Saw it in a movie once.” His radio was right there, if he could just get to it… “Any way you’ll make my night easier by just turning yourself in?”

And another laugh. “I’m not going quietly. I can’t.” He gestured with his gun towards Tim’s jacket. “What’s your instinct right now, I’m curious. Arrest me like a marshal, or shoot me like a grunt?”

“Grunt?” Tim let himself sound insulted. “Fuck you, I haven’t been a grunt since-”

“Since Ranger School? Or before that?” Foster grinned. “Way before you served with Declan, right?”

Shit. He did know Declan was here. “You going after him after you shoot me?” he asked.

Foster shook his head. “More worried that he’ll come after me.”

There was some truth to that. “Come on, man, give me something before you shoot me. How many people are in this thing? How far does it go? Why do you look like you want to leave it so much?”

That stalled him for a second, and the second was what Tim wanted. He twisted, grabbed his radio, tried to throw himself back to the door into the building. “Suspect-”

The gunshot wasn’t unexpected, but the contact was. (Though the guy was a professional hitter, of course he’d be able to hit a target a few meters away.) Tim didn’t make it to the door, falling on his back just a foot or two away from it. His chest was on fire. Not literally, though that would’ve been cool. 

He fought against the urge to touch his vest, make sure it had stopped the bullet. Of course it had, otherwise he’d be pretty dead right now. He decided to wheeze instead. Wheezing was good, meant he was breathing. Pretty much all he was capable of at the moment. 

Footsteps got his attention though, and Tim forced himself to move, rolling just in time to avoid the boot coming at his head. “Shit,” he coughed, reached for his own gun. His rifle was by the door, he noted. Safe and sound. He’d get it later. He hoped.

And hey, turned out reaching was a bad idea. Reaching pulled at his chest and ribs, made the fire come back, made his vision go spotty. Also, the boot was back, and he couldn’t get out of the way this time. He cursed again, ending up on his side, more woozy than he’d like. Shit, that had connected with the stupid head wound he already had. Fuck.

He tried to focus, tried to plan, counterattack, something. But his thoughts were getting away from him, and the harder he tried to think, the sicker it made him feel. Luckily, the boot wasn’t trying to cave his head in again. But the downside of that, he could hear the click of a gun reloading. 

_Okay. This looks bad._

But the gunshot, when it came, was from an entirely different direction, and Foster went down hard. Tim blinked a few times- slowly- letting Raylan come into the focus. “Had’m right where I wanted’m,” he said, surprised at the slur he heard in his own voice.

Raylan just nodded, moving past him to cover Foster, make sure he was down. “I can tell.”

Rachel was there too, leaving the dead body to Raylan, crouching down next to Tim. “You hit?” she wasn’t frantic, but she wasn’t exactly nonchalant either.

Tim coughed again. “He killed my vest.”

She closed her eyes for a second longer than normal. Or else Tim was taking a long time to process sight and stuff. Maybe both. “We’ll mourn later. You hurt anywhere else?”

“Nope.”

“There’s blood on your face, Tim.”

He glared. “Then why’d you ask?” He let Rachel help him up, though, and only leaned on her a few seconds before getting his bearings. “Keep lookout. Wasn’t workin’ alone.”

“Foster wasn’t?” Raylan had kicked the gun away. “Another shooter?”

Tim nodded, took a deep breath, steeled himself to bend down and get his rifle… then sighed when Rachel did it for him. “Maybe more’n one.”

“Here? Now?” Raylan kept his gun at the ready, nodding to both of them to get to the door, covering them. “Shit. Art’s got SOG on standby, they can handle this. Medics are downstairs.”

“What for?” Tim mumbled as Rachel led him by the arm to the elevator. God bless elevators. “’S someone hurt?”

“Shut up Tim.”

He wasn’t sure which one of them said it. So, just in case it was Rachel, he shut up.

***

“A network.”

Tim had refused medical treatment until he made his report, and Art was trying to keep that in mind. But here he was, admitting he’d now talked to Foster _more than once_ , that he’d been thinking for days now that it was an organization behind the hit, that he’d been keeping the theory to himself. Tim nodded. “I don’t know how far it goes, who’s behind it. But it’s a group of professionals. Probably at least a dozen, I don’t know.”

He was mumbling a bit more than usual, slurring a little. Art tried to remind himself of that, calm himself down, remember that-

“That why you called your friend at the FBI?” Rachel spoke up, eyeing him closely.

“She hasn’t found anything yet,” he mumbled, looking away.

“You went to the _FBI_ before your own office?” Well, so much for restraint. Art crossed his arms, staring Tim down, couldn’t help himself. “You realize you could’ve risked the witness and all our lives by not coming to me with this, Tim?”

Tim nodded, not quite looking him in the eye. “Didn’t have proof yet.”

 _Never stopped you before,_ he wanted to say. And might have, if someone else hadn’t stepped in.

“Chief,” Declan moved just subtly enough for everyone to notice he had moved, getting just a little bit between Art and Tim. “Far be it for me to tell you how to-”

“Far be it? Looks like you’ve got no qualms stepping in here, Sergeant.” Art turned his ire to the Army man. “This is in fact a Marshal matter right now, not Army, not CID, so I’m going to have to ask you to excuse your ass back to-”

To his surprise, Declan actually had the nerve to draw himself up taller, angrier. “Look, it’s not my fault you can’t-”

“Why don’t you be careful how you finish that thought, or I might have to-”

“Okay.” A different voice, an angrier one, shut them both up. Tim stood up from where he’d been sitting on the back of his truck.

“Tim-” Rachel moved in, warning, scolding.

He wobbled just a little, glaring at Art and Declan. “Enough. Just…” He shook his head, very carefully. “Christ, I’m fucking tired of this.”

Art wasn’t so pissed that he didn’t hear the exhaustion in Tim’s voice, the look Raylan and Rachel exchanged. 

“Okay,” Rachel echoed him unconsciously, now standing between him and everyone else. “Debrief over. I’m taking you to get checked out by someone with a medical degree. Now.”

Art stepped a little closer to…. argue? Apologize? He wasn’t even sure. Didn’t matter though, because Raylan was suddenly there too, corralling him and Declan back a few feet. “Gentlemen, I think now’d be a good time to separate to our cars and enjoy a nice, quiet, solitary drive back to the office.”

Declan stepped away almost immediately, shaking his head, muttering, going off to his own car. Art couldn’t help it though, hesitating, watching Rachel and Tim head out in another direction. Raylan kept the way block, shaking his head. “Raylan-”

“Art, if you ever trust me on something, trust me on this. Wait till he can stand on his own two feet before you two… whatever. Heart to heart or beat each other senseless. Continue your custody battle with the Sergeant. I don’t know. Wait till he can see straight and I’m not around to witness,” Raylan somehow managed to keep it up until Rachel and Tim were a safe distance away. “Jesus, this is a mess.”

And Art hated when Raylan was right..

***

She was smart enough and nice enough not to say anything after she led him away, not until they were pulling up to the emergency room doors. “I’ll go find a parking spot.”

“Okay. I’ll go get dinner, you want Chinese, or-”

“Tim,” she didn’t sigh. That would sound patronizing. “I didn’t try to make you talk, or talk at you, the whole ride here. So do me a favor and actually go inside and get checked out. Please?”

He pursed his lips, weighing his options in his head, and she hated this whole situation for coming to this. But finally, thank God, he nodded, mouth quirking into the smallest of smiles for the quickest of seconds. But enough to reassure her. “Chinese after?”

“Chinese after,” she agreed. “I’ll park and come find you inside, okay?”

“Yes ma’am,” he had only a little hitch to his breath and he climbed out of the car. She was tempted to stay there and wait till she saw him actually go through the ER doors, but no- she had to show him that she trusted him. That someone did. So she simply stuck out her tongue, pulling away as soon as he shut the car door. _Something_ had to go right tonight, right?

***

“I don’t think I have to tell you how uncomfortable I am with all this.”

Art rubbed his head. Frustrated. “And yet, here you are.”

Raylan stood in front of him, one hand on his hip. Probably also frustrated. “This here is a role reversal, Art. I’m not fond of it. I don’t like feeling like _I’m_ the level-headed one and you’re acting irrational.”

“Raylan-”

“Even if Tim _was_ considering going back to the Rangers- which I don’t think he is, by the way- you don’t think you’re helping to push him that direction?” Raylan took off his hat, raked a hand through his hair, put his hat back on. “Come on, Art. This is ridiculous.”

“I trust Tim,” Art argued. “I knows he’s on our side-”

“There are sides now?”

“-And I know I’m screwing this up a bit, but- but I don’t trust Declan. And I think he’s trying to turn Tim against us, or pull him away. Something. There’s something off about that whole thing.” He shook his head. “My gut is right enough times to worry me right now. Nothing you can say to dissuade me of that particular feeling.”

Raylan shook his head, still looking skeptical, but a knock at the door interrupted them. “Chief.”

Just what they needed, of course. A visit from David Vasquez was never a good sign. “What’d Raylan do now?” he sighed.

Raylan didn’t snap at him and Vasquez didn’t banter back, so maybe this wasn’t business as usual. “It’s a bit more serious than that, Chief.”

And then Art realized the CID guy, Covey, was standing there too. “What’s going on?”

“U.S. Attorney’s office, in accordance with the FBI and CID, has an arrest warrant for Staff Sergeant Benjamin Declan,” Vasquez said it so calmly, so matter of factly, like he didn’t know the shitstorm this was about to cause.

“What the hell for?” Raylan looked between the two interlopers almost accusingly.

“The hitman you were chasing? He’s part of a bigger group, a network. It’s nearly a corporation at this point, bringing in retired or discharged military men, paying them top dollar to carry out whatever hits they get hired for,” Vasquez looked right back at them, eyes narrowing, too intelligent for his own good yet again. He could see something was up, that something was about to throw a wrench in his arrest. "They're good, and they've been hiding in plain sight for close to twenty years now. Keep their shootters locked in through any means necessary- money, drugs, whatever. A tip through the FBI just led to a breakthrough."

“And Declan’s a part of this network?” Art was already resigned to this, already tired. Already shoving aside the anger to feel later, when he had a bottle in his hand. Shit. How the hell was Tim going to react to this?

“He’s one of the recruiters,” Covey corrected cautiously

“ _Shit,_ ” Raylan turned, took a few steps to the far wall of the office, walked back. “Shit.” He and Art exchanged a look, somewhere between ‘I told you so’ and ‘maybe you were right but I’m still pissed’. “How long have you all known about this?”

“Where is Declan?” Vasquez asked right back. “We need to get this done soon, and quietly.”

“Should be here any minute,” Art stood up slowly, all his bones and muscles hurting. He was gonna be the one to break this to Tim, he knew it. And Tim was gonna be pissed at him for it, he knew that too. “Why would the man be a consult on the case, get this close to it?”

Covey hesitated, then barreled forward with the explanation. “He may have been here to recruit your deputy.”

Art and Raylan froze, and Raylan instinctively looked to Art to take lead on reacting to this. Diplomacy- not Raylan’s strong suit. Not that Art was always that much better. Still, he took lead now, shaking off his feelings again. Pointing to Raylan, “Call Rachel.” Turning back to Covey and Vasquez, “If you try to tell me anyone from my office is actually involved in this bullshit-”

Vasquez held up a hand, peaceful as always. “Not an inch of dirt or blame on Gutterson, I promise you. But we do need to talk to him.”

“Yeah, get in line,” Art grumbled as his cell rang loudly, harshly, in his pocket. Pulling it out, he froze yet again. “Raylan,” he called him back from his desk. Rachel was calling him. Art glanced at the three men in his office, then answered the phone. “Rachel, I need you two back here asap. We’ve got-”

“Art,” Rachel sounded about as panicked as she ever had. “I- I can’t find Tim.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why yes, I did reference both Hot Fuzz and Hawkguy...


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fan gets a break from all the shit hitting it. Not that that's really a good thing.

Something must have shown on his face, because Raylan went from annoyed to frowning to focused and ready in a matter of seconds, hand straying to his holster on habit. Art focused more on his phone. “Say that again.”

“I dropped him off out front of the emergency room and went to park,” Rachel shifted emotions too, trying to report, trying to be professional about it. Mostly succeeding. Art could hear the panic receding with each word, was proud of her in the back of his mind. She was always so good at that. “He wasn’t in the waiting room. I checked with the nurse’s station, he- he was never here, never got looked at. I- he promised me he would, Art. He’s not here. And he’s not answering his phone.”

Art pointed at Raylan again. “Try Tim’s cell. Keep calling until someone answers or you pass out from dehydration. Do it now.” Raylan didn’t even question, walking out to his desk. “Where are you right now, Rachel?”

“I only left him for a few minutes,” she was still trying to get it all out. “He promised he’d-” Then he could hear it, hear her draw herself up, steady herself. “I’m driving to his apartment, just in case. But he’s not gonna be there. He said Foster had other guys working with him, and-”

“Rachel,” he kept his voice steady too. “Vasquez and Covey are here.”

“Who’s that?”

“CID.” None of them were ever going to remember his name.

“Oh. Right. And?”

“It’s Declan.”

A pause. “He’s… missing too? He’s dead? What?” And then he didn’t even have time to say anything. “Shit. He’s part of it, isn’t he? Damn it. Does anyone know where he is? Or have we already served Tim up on a platter to him?” And by ‘we’, she most definitely meant ‘Art’. 

He allowed her to hear his sigh, accepting the accusation. It was true, after all. “We were hoping he was en route here, but if Tim is missing…”

“He followed us to the hospital. Great,” she snapped. Then, not snapping, “Where do you want me?”

“Right where you are. Go to his place, maybe he’s taking Tim there. We’ll keep each other updated.”

“Yeah, you can count on it,” she snapped at him again, not that he blamed her.

He returned his attention to Vasquez and the CID man, coming into the middle of their conversation. “-If we lose the one solid witness we’ve finally got, this whole operation is going to implode on us.”

“What do you mean by ‘operation’?” Vasquez asked, frowning in that way he always did when someone tried to slip something past him. Which was always.

“I’m interested in that too,” Art moved in slowly, prowling, feeling the stormclouds gathering over his shoulders. Feeling Covey shift to attention, which just confirmed his half-formed intuitions. “Did CID suspect Declan before this?”

The man was already at attention, couldn’t draw himself up any taller. “We’re not going to comment on an ongoing investigation, Chief Mullen.”

Vasquez snorted, dark and fed up. “So it is an investigation, and it is ongoing. Great. Any chance you could’ve given anyone a heads up on that before this started?”

Covey turned back to him, defensive. “We didn’t want to spook Declan. Finally get a chance to pin him down in the act? We weren’t about to-”

“In. The. Act.” He was dimly aware of the whole office going quiet around them. He was slightly more aware of Raylan still trying to call Tim’s cell and no one picking up. And very much aware of Covey not quite meeting his gaze- doing that Army thing Tim sometimes did, looking past someone’s left shoulder so it only appeared like you were looking them in the eye. “So you also knew Declan was going to go after Tim.”

Vasquez, as Art knew he would be, was firmly in his corner. “Are you telling me CID used a decorated veteran- and current federal officer- as bait? Wow, you guys are all about the positive press right now, aren’t you?”

Art forced out a laugh, forced himself to turn and step away before he did something Raylan would do. 

“This is still salvageable,” Covey insisted somewhere behind Art and his stormclouds. “Declan _likes_ Gutterson. He’ll want to reason with him. We have time. The only hitch now would be Declan killing the kid before we can find them, but even if that’s the case, we have contingency-”

“Chief!”

“ _Art_ -”

Art had whirled back around at that, walking up to Covey and, without breaking stride, shoving him back into the wall, catching him against the glass and beams, and held him there. Covey struggled, but Art shoved him in the chest again, pinned him to the wall.

He leaned in, pointed a finger in Covey’s face, deceptively calm. “I know I really shouldn’t be adding _more_ strife to what right now I’d categorize as an epic pile of shit between our agencies, but if you ever refer to the murder of one of mine as a... paperwork inconvenience, I will put you down. Got that?”

***

Tim was really out of shape when it came to handling concussions. He used to be better at it. Had only himself to blame, of course, being out of practice. He hadn’t had the opportunity to get himself a concussion in…

Counting hurt. Tim filed counting under the to-not-do list. He swallowed again, breathed slowly through his nose, readjusted the towel Declan had tossed at him to soak up the last of the blood at his temple. Small, small movements. Slow, too. Slow movements. Not looking out the window at trees and whatever rushing past, not paying attention to the bumps and turns the car made. (That was going to bite him in the ass later if he tried to find his way back on his own. Tried to… escape? Was this a kidnapping?)

“The fuck is going on?” Tim murmured, pretty sure there was minimal slurring in his voice. 

Also pretty sure he’d already asked this and forgotten the answer.

Declan’s sigh maybe confirmed that. “C’mon, Gutterson. I need you focused right now. Mind sharp. Understand?”

“Hm?” It pulled on a memory. A dusty, grime-covered, bloody, screaming, shitty memory. An explosion, he was on his back, he was bleeding, his leg, _fuck_ his hip hurt, he’d lost his rifle somewhere. A hand dragging him back by his shoulder and a voice commanding-

“We’ve never talked about everything that happened that last day. It’s something you just don’t do, you don’t rehash shit like that,” Declan wasn’t speaking all that fast, maybe mindful of Tim’s concussion. That should’ve been nicer than it actually was. “But we both know it happened. We both know you owe me something.”

Tim dabbed the towel at his head, carefully checked to see if the bleeding had stopped. It had. “I have a feelin’ I’m not gonna look back on this night later and laugh.” He just as carefully connected dots in his head. Foster. Declan. It took him awhile, but he got there. “Shit. Fucking-” he turned, ignored the nausea that caused, and glared. “Fuck you, _Ben_.”

Declan was probably expecting that. “You owe me, kid. You’re gonna help me get clear of this.”

He balled the towel up in his fist, kept his breaths steady. “It’s federal jurisdiction now. There is no _clear._ ” 

Declan moved faster than he could track, reaching into the glove compartment, pulling out handcuffs. Oh, oh this was _terrific_. Tim was so not gonna laugh about this later. “We’re Rangers, Gutterson. We’ve always got a-”

He managed an eye roll without throwing up. Pretty awesome of him. “Laying it on kinda thick with the nostalgia?”

Declan’s turn to glare. It was a good glare, threatening, scary. Tim had forgotten about that glare, how well it used to motivate him to push work harder. So much for that now, huh? “I’m getting clear. Put the cuffs on.”

***

“Alright. We’re heading that direction, we’ll meet you there.” Art hung up his phone with a decisive snap and sighed. “Rachel and backup are a few minutes behind us. CID too, as long as it’s convenient for ’em.”

Raylan just nodded, keeping his eyes on the road. “At least they were kind enough to let us use the tracker they’d put on Declan’s car. One plus side to the whole failed-sting-operation, using-our-guy-as-unknowing-bait thing.”

“You knew Foster had been at Tim’s apartment,” Art accused, kinda out of nowhere. Not that Raylan was surprised he hadn’t been listening to him just now.

“I did. Gave him a ride to work the next morning,” Raylan really felt the need to point that out, just as he had with Rachel. Good Samaritan. Him. For once. He should get points for that.

“You didn’t think you should tell me that before now?”

“No, Art, I really didn’t,” he drawled so he wouldn’t snap, really starting to get fed up with all of it. “For one, wasn’t my place. For two, I thought you were the boss who got far by _not_ knowing shit.” He spoke louder, quicker, when Art tried to argue there. “For three, you were just as compromised as anyone over this. You and Declan tug-o-warring over Tim.”

Art only looked chagrined for about two seconds. “And considering how everything’s turning out, maybe I was right to-”

“Regardless of how it’s turned out, or how it’ll be turned out by the time the sun’s up,” Raylan shook his head. “It ain’t right. We were all headin’ in a bad direction, Art.” He lowered his voice, “No guarantee it won’t still be bad.” If Rachel was here, he would’ve sounded more reassuring. But since she wasn’t, he felt he had to be more scolding on her behalf.

Art was quiet next to him, maybe sighing again. “Shit. I know,” he said, shaking his head. “For what it’s worth, I didn’t think Declan was this…”

Raylan laughed, dark and dry. “I actually liked the guy. Feels like Drew Thompson all over again, don’t it? At least this one’s not on us.” And his opinion of CID hadn’t changed, that was for damn sure.

“Not on you, you mean. This goes how it’s looking to go, I’m gonna…” Art paused, rubbing at his head. “I’m gonna have to answer to some things.”

Raylan was quiet, pausing too. “Vasquez looked pretty firmly on our side.”

“I’m not talking about Vasquez, Raylan.” 

“I know.”

***

There was a small part of Tim that could appreciate the ridiculousness of this. He’d appreciate it more if it was happening to someone else, _love_ it if it was happening to Raylan, but still. A hitman waiting for a helicopter to come pick him up in the middle of an abandoned airfield? At night? It just needed a trenchcoat. And fog. A lone streetlamp covered in fog. Something like that.

On an unrelated note, Tim maybe still had a bit of a headwound. 

His chest didn’t feel so great, either. Trying to walk with his hands cuffed behind him pulled at every sore and bruised muscle, reminding him that he’d kinda been shot a few hours ago. He stumbled along next to Declan, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. Like marching. Great. 

“You’re doing well,” Declan said, sounding so approving. 

Where once, Tim hated to admit, he would’ve appreciated that- relished it, even- now it just left a bitter taste in his mouth. “Stop it.”

“It’s true, son. You always were a tough son of a bitch. I was always proud of you. Whatever other shit happens, that’s always going to be true.”

“Stop.”

“You still have so much promise, you know.”

“Don’t,” he was near-growling now.

“There’s places for you, even if you did wash out of regular-”

“I didn’t fucking wash out,” Tim snapped, turning a little, ignoring the strain it took to do it. He had a good glare too, he knew it. Always worked on Nelson. He used it now. “I did nine years of… of that,” _of killing people, watching people get killed_ , “and I didn’t want to anymore.”

Declan heard what he didn't say. “Oh, okay. And have you killed anyone since?”

A tiny thread in Tim’s brain, one tiny thread, started coming loose. That fugitive his first week in the Lexington office. The bank robber four months after that who'd been about to kill Rachel. Shirley’s cousin- Raylan's first week in the office, Jess Timmons, Doyle Bennett. Colt. The dozens of others he’d been set up to shoot, been ready to. Wanted to.

Declan saw all that too. “If that was really the case, you wouldn’t have joined law enforcement. You would’ve let go of the rifle.”

“And not be like you?” he muttered. “Not be...” he stopped.

“Not be what?” Declan was grinning, he could hear it in his voice. 

Tim gritted his teeth, wincing when his vision went a little dark for it. “I’m not doing this. I’m not doing what you do. No goddamn honor in-”

“Honor?” he wasn’t pissed off, he wasn’t threatened by Tim at all. “We’re going to talk about honor? You’re really that honorable, kid? Everything you’ve done?” He grabbed Tim’s shoulder, spun him around to face him. “Don’t fucking forget, Tim. I know you. Better than,” he waved a hand behind him, and Tim got that much more pissed off when he realized he didn’t know which way Lexington was from here. Concussions sucked. “Only thing I can’t figure out is how you got them fooled.”

“Fooled?” Tim asked, and hated himself for asking, tried to keep that frayed edge from unraveling farther, faster.. 

“I just want to know your secret,” Declan tilted his head, held that gun of his loosely, pointed generally in Tim’s direction. “How is it you went from stone-cold killer over there to such a nice, clean, contributing member of society back here. How do people see you as that?”

Tim forced his hands not to ball up into fists, it would just hurt in the stupid handcuffs. “I’m not-” he stopped again. His voice was too soft for his liking. Not nearly strong enough. He wasn’t even sure how he was supposed to finish the sentence.

Declan knew. And laughed. “And yet. So many people have died.”

“Like Foster?” he couldn’t stop himself.

He probably imagined Declan’s flinch. Probably just hoped it was there. “I didn’t kill Dan.”

“Yeah, you kinda did.” This was getting away from him. It was going too fast for him to keep up, for his thoughts to connect. To control. “He wanted out, didn’t he? That’s why you were fine consultin’ on this. You were gonna make sure he- he was taken care of no matter what.” He couldn’t keep control of himself, that was the worst part. His hands were shaking, for fuck’s sake. “This is pathetic,” he mumbled.

The air around Declan seemed to actually go cold. Tim almost shivered, and again- would’ve been funny if not for the fact that he just wanted to lie down for ten goddamn minutes. “Pathetic?”

Tim had meant himself, but sure, why not go with it. “All of this is. It’s…” he paused, more to catch his breath, gather his thoughts, than anything else. “It’s disgusting. It’s shitty. All those guys that come back fucked up, you’re just making it worse. Foster was strung out. How’d he get hooked in the first place?” Like Mark. Why did Mark get hooked on oxy? Why did Colt end up on heroin? Fuck all of this- what was wrong with Tim that he wasn’t like everybody else?

The gun was pointed a little more at his face now. It helped, in some ways. Kept him more focused. “And you’re doing any better, kid? Got yourself a star and a different logo on the rifle, think that makes you _better_ than all this? You think those people,” another handwave, and fucking shit- which way was Lexington? “-You think they’d _want_ you in their ranks if they knew all the shit you’ve done? I’m offering you a better team and better people than that, Tim. You know I am.”

Funny thing was, Tim did know it. Knew Declan actually believed it, at least. And when more flashes- not his kills as a Marshal, but some shots he had to take before that, before Art and Rachel and Lexington, after-during-before Declan- more flashes filled his mind, and that stupid tiny thread was nearly ripping his brain apart. “I’m not one of yours anymore,” he managed to spit out. “It’s done.”

“This here is done. I’m offering you your old life back, Tim. A better one. This life? It’s over.” Declan stepped closer, gun still trained on him.

“For you, maybe,” another voice joined in. “You don’t put that gun down, I’m offering a pretty quick end to your evening.”

Tim’s brain was so scrambled, he was actually grateful Raylan had come up with the witty retort for him.

***

In a way, Raylan was comforted. This was exactly the scenario he had pictured happening, so he was ready. 

But it didn’t mean he liked it.

Declan was calm, confident, as at ease as he’d been since Raylan had met him… damn, not even a week ago? But now he had a gun, and now he had the gun pointed at Tim. Was talking to Tim. And Tim was being forced to stand between him and Raylan’s clear shot. 

Raylan re-gripped his gun, glancing to the side as Art did the same, as the two of them tried to flank the insane hostage situation going on right now. But Declan was smart, as they knew he would be. He kept his back covered, kept Tim close, kept the gun close to Tim. Shit.

Funny enough, it was actually Tim that had Raylan the most confused right now. Fists clenched in handcuffs, stiff-legged, and- and dark. The look in Tim’s eyes was dark. About as angry as he’d ever seen him. A little wild too, which wasn’t something he ever thought of with Tim- uncontrolled.

And listening closer told Raylan exactly why.

“All over, weren’t you? Kabul, Ghazni, sent you over to Iraq for-”

Raylan cursed silently. Again. First rule of Tim Gutterson was- you do not talk about Tim Gutterson. Not unless he volunteers information first, and Raylan was willing to bet that wasn’t happening here.

“Son of a bitch,” he could hear Art’s growl from a few feet away, was sure Declan could too. And was just as sure that Declan had already dismissed them as threats. They wouldn’t do anything while there was still a chance Tim could be caught in the crossfire. 

“Gang’s all here now,” he heard Declan say, as Rachel and their backup arrived, spreading out, more guns drawn, more eyes, more ears, more tension. “If they’re gonna try to stop me, they might as well know, right?”

“Put the gun down, right now,” Rachel was the next to try… try what? Convince Declan to turn himself in? Or let Tim go? Break whatever spell he was trying to weave, whatever words he was trying to say? “Tim, are you-”

“I forgot, what did they call you over there? The insurgents, the locals. They had a nickname for you over there, what was it?” Declan was needling him now, the gun way too close. “I can’t remember how many you killed over there, do you? Do you have a number you could tell these people?”

Tim was silent, face set hard and stony. No flinching, his hands didn’t even move in the cuffs behind his back. Raylan could feel Art and Rachel, though. There was a vibration of anger from them, from all the Marshals really. Rachel had said it before- _despite what you say and do, we’re a team_. Tim was a part of their team, and Raylan didn’t appreciate him getting messed with by anybody but Raylan.

“What did they call you?” Declan asked again.

“Insurgents and locals are two different things,” Tim said right back, sounding like his voice was grated, shredding out of his throat.

“What did they call you?”

Tim didn’t answer. Blinked a few more times than necessary, but nothing else. Raylan tried to inch closer, but Declan caught the moment immediately. He shifted, making sure Tim was still providing the cover, and said something quietly to Tim. The gun was still too close to Tim’s head, but it drifted an inch just then. Towards the Marshals. Towards maybe Rachel, maybe Art, maybe Raylan himself. Declan repeated whatever he’d said, and when Raylan figured it out, he had to bite down on his own anger. _Answer, or I’ll shoot one of them._

“How many?”

“I don’t know,” Tim choked on the words even as he said them, forcing them out.

“How old was the oldest?” Declan tried again. “One of the ones you _do_ know.”

Barely a hesitation. “Sixty-eight.”

“How old was the youngest?” Declan kept at it. 

Even less of a hesitation, but less of a voice too. Syllable-by-syllable, Tim was shutting it all down. “Thirteen.”

“How many women?” Declan didn’t even react to the answer- either he already knew it or he didn’t care. 

Or both? Probably both. Tim kept answering, less and less emotion on his face, less and less _anything_ in his voice. Raylan getting more and more pissed off. “Hey, asshole, why don’t you-”

Declan spoke over Raylan like he wasn’t even there. “Come on, kid, what did they call y-”

“Al Wezzéy Halek,” Tim snapped, his accent straining through whatever language he was speaking. “Started calling me that after my nineteenth kill. Because it happened so fast after my seventeenth and eighteenth. Because I didn’t slow down. I killed more’n twenty-five people before I _turned_ twenty-five.”

Raylan froze, could feel Rachel’s shock, Art’s anger, everything next to him.

“You want to know how many kills I’ve had? I can’t tell you. Partly ‘cause some are probably still classified, partly ‘cause I _lost count_ for awhile. What the fuck do you want me to say about it? You want me to tell you I’m so broken inside, so you feel better about the shitty choices you’ve been making?”

There was silence then, oppressive as Declan’s questions had been. Pushing in on them from all sides. Tim didn’t even seem to realize they were there at all, so focused on the man in front of him. But Declan- Declan was aware. “There,” he said, calm again, sounding oh-so-pleased.

Raylan would be oh-so-pleased to put a bullet in him, and his look towards Art said as much. But Declan still had too much cover, was too used to bullets flying at him. He was expecting any maneuver the Marshals could make. 

“There,” he said again. “Now they know.” So goddamn pleased. “You’re not one of them. You don’t belong. You’re a pair of eyes and a trigger.”

Raylan could _feel_ Tim’s flinch and had to fight against firing his gun again. “It was my job,” Tim said quietly, not quite desperate but maybe heading that direction. “My job. ’M not a murderer.”

“You feel like one sometimes though, don’t you?” Declan moved them a bit again, still facing Tim. Tim, who had no choice but to look back at him. “That itch, the way it bites your skin so you can’t get away from it fast enough or fall asleep or... Things were so much easier over there. Didn’t have to- to think about things the same way people here do.”

Raylan moved a little closer, if only to find a way to shut this guy up. There had to be some angle, some clear shot...

“I’m not one of yours anymore,” Tim said it like he’d been repeating it over and over. Maybe he had. “I’m not a- I live with the rest of it.”

“You’re not living with it,” Declan was almost happy at Tim’s words, sensing some opening none of the rest of them could see. “You’re just burying it. And you don’t have to.” He _smiled._ Like he was _winning._ “They know now, Gutterson. You think they’ll be any-”

“Tim, you better not be listening to any of this bullshit,” Art snapped in his best ‘Art’ voice, commanding, familiar, long-suffering, stern. All in one. “I will personally kick your ass, my bad knees and all, if you think we’d just let you up and leave because of this piece of shit or anything else.”

“Tim,” Rachel said just that, just that quietly. Firmly. Adding her own support, her own anger on Tim’s behalf. 

“You think they’ll look at you the same after this?” Declan cut right back in, smooth and- now that Raylan thought about it- almost snakelike. “My people, you know us. We’re-”

“You’re not his people,” Raylan kinda felt he had to speak too. If Tim believed anybody wasn’t bullshitting him, it was gonna be Raylan. “Art’s the only one that gets to screw you up. Not him.”

Problem with Tim was, even on a good day one couldn’t be absolutely sure what he was thinking. And today? Not a good day. Tim hadn’t so much as twitched as the Marshals behind him tried to throw their words between him and Declan. What had Raylan called it before? A tug-of-war. They were all pulling now.

And Tim was at a standstill, hard expressionless look fixed on Declan. Raylan didn’t know if he was empty, if he was angry, if he was planning what shirt he was gonna wear tomorrow, or if he-

“Shoot.”

Yeah. Not what any of them expected. “Shit,” Rachel muttered, and usually Raylan delighted in hearing Rachel curse- it just never sounded right coming from her, like she’d learned it later in life, a second language- but now he felt like echoing it louder and longer.

Tim didn’t seem to hear her, and he usually loved it as much as Raylan did. Instead, he took a step closer to Declan. “You want this to end so badly, just shoot me.” His voice was getting rougher, hoarse, a bowstring getting pulled tighter and tighter. “I don’t mind. Second you do, Raylan over there’s gonna shoot you. I’d rather that than you getting anywhere on your own tonight.”

“God _damn_ son of a…” Art was about as pissed as Raylan had ever seen him, and that was saying something.

Tim ignored it, stepping even closer. “I’d rather you be put down.” Another step, and Declan was so surprised he seemed to pull away a fraction of an inch. Not enough to give them a clear shot, though. And Tim was following the step anyway, almost pushing at Declan now. “All those guys that come back here and are fucked up because of it, you’re not helping them. You’re keeping them in the Shit.”

“I’m-” 

Tim interrupted him again with another push. “You’re ruining them. You’re a fucking dealer now, that’s all. Supplying addicts. Seen enough of that. So shoot me, and get yourself shot.”

And then Raylan saw it- the grass they were standing on, that Tim and Declan were stumbling through, met a gravel patch just behind Declan. Raylan saw it, knew Tim saw it too- maybe had for awhile. But the important thing was Declan didn’t, and the second his heel met different terrain, the surprise of it, Raylan acted.

Tim dropped fast, knowing what was coming (knowing Raylan, probably), and threw himself to the side, away from the barrel of Declan’s gun. Raylan fired, pulling his shot at the last second, hitting the man in the shoulder. Declan hit the ground hard too, and all the spectators to their little show closed in before he could recover.

Raylan kicked Declan’s gun away, covering him with one eye, watching Rachel uncuff Tim with the other. She moved back around in front of him, trying to get a read on him, meet his gaze. But Tim kept his eyes moving around, not wanting to be read, rubbing his wrists in a slow and practiced way. “You okay?”

He nodded, not really watching deputies put Declan in handcuffs. “Didn’t kill him,” he directed it at Raylan.

Raylan shrugged, went for casual. “Enough of that going around right now.” He didn’t let his eyes widen, but definitely felt them sharpen, when Tim reached out and lifted Declan’s gun off the ground. “Hey-”

“You asked me before, Rach,” Tim studied the gun, not looking up at them. “Asked me if I thought I’d be able to pull against someone I knew.”

Rachel was still kneeling next to him, very quiet. Maybe scared to make noise. “Yeah.”

He glanced at her for about as long as he seemed able, a fraction of a second. “I said I would want to be the one to do it. I could.”

And just when Raylan was about to wonder how the hell they were going to end _this_ peaceably, Rachel simply reached out, took the gun out of Tim’s grasp. “You also said you’d trust me to arrest the guy first.” Tim’s expression didn’t change, but he didn’t fight it either. Didn’t do much of anything.

“Not gonna finish this?” Declan was suddenly calling out, suddenly loud, furious, desperate. Finally not that easygoing smile he’d had this whole time. But now, handcuffs and paramedics and deputies pulling at him, now with it all over- “Not gonna end it, kid? Be like your fath-”

That a fist came out and slammed into Declan’s jaw wasn’t so surprising. That the fist was Art’s kinda was. “Oops,” he said blandly, staring down at him. “These shoes and wet grass. I slipped.”

Everyone was suddenly too busy to notice.

Tim had maybe-kinda-flinched again at Declan’s yelling, seeming to realize he was still on the ground himself. He stood up, or tried to, but his legs and arms were shaking just a little too much. He slid back to sit on the grass, saying nothing.

“Hey, let me-” Rachel reached forward, but stopped the second Tim visibly pulled away. She looked to Raylan instead, unsure, needing some direction.

Raylan nodded to just past her shoulder, and the two of them managed to crowd the approaching paramedics away. Tim got to his feet this time, a bit of unsteadiness, bracing himself with an arm around his middle.

Rachel wasn’t that deterred, of course. She was there immediately, tucking herself against his side, arm going around his back to support him some, not really giving him any choice in the matter. Raylan waited for a smart comment or eye roll, but there wasn’t one. Tim was still shoving nothing but nothing forward at everyone.

Taking a cue from that, Raylan spoke just as little, positioned himself on the other side of Tim without touching, keeping pace with them on the walk to the ambulance a few yards away. Warding off anyone who got too close with his best ‘I don’t got time for you and/or your bullshit’ glare.

Rachel was murmuring something to Tim too quiet for Raylan to hear, just loud enough for him to identify the tone- casual, teasing, annoyed. Maybe complaining about the weather, the late hour, the mud on her shoes.

There were more cars pulling up- more deputies and locals, Vasquez, Covey and his CID assholes, maybe FBI. A lot of confused, angry people all centered around the second ambulance. Declan’s. Raylan couldn’t see Art in all the madness, hoped he was raising hell about the whole ‘using Tim for bait’ thing. Since it had turned out _so_ well for the Marshals’ office.

“We’re gonna be up to our necks in paperwork for the rest of the week,” Rachel said, grumbling. “Don’t think you’re getting out of your fair share.”

She was trying to provoke him, get Tim to make a smartass comment, Raylan realized. She probably had been since the moment she got the cuffs off. Maybe Tim knew it too, and he was acting like this just to be contrary.

Or maybe they all had a right to be worried.

Because Tim just nodded, slid himself fully onto a waiting stretcher, and promptly shut his eyes. Leaving the rest of them to the silence. They looked at each other, on completely unfamiliar ground, unsure of how to proceed.

The paramedics took over in their moment of awkward ‘oh shit’ness, strapping Tim in, barking stats and orders to each other, asking Tim the usual concussion questions. Raylan didn’t get a chance to see if Tim would actually answer _them_ , as the doors were pulled shut, blocking them out. 

The driver paused by their lost little pow-wow. “Anybody following?” 

“I will,” Rachel said immediately. Glancing at Raylan, “Anybody other than you wants to talk to him about any of this, they’ll have to deal with me first,” she seemed to be saying it more to herself- a vow- than to Raylan.

But he listened anyway, knowing she needed it, watching the ambulance head out. Lights flashing, but no siren. That was always a good sign. Raylan took a brief moment to remind himself that- no siren meant no emergency. This wasn’t an emergency. And yet, “You worried?” he had to ask.

She was watching the ambulance too, nodding slowly. “Yeah. You?”

Raylan swallowed, gave a much quicker nod.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If i'm gonna be clever and continue my chapter summary theme, I guess... the fan finally gets cleaned and taken care of a little bit?

Tim was asleep by the time Rachel got past the bureaucracy and into his room. She watched him for a moment, took in the butterfly bandage at his temple and the wrap that started around his sternum and disappeared under the blanket. He was pale and shaky-looking, even in his sleep. She heard her mom’s voice in her head, _Well, boy, don’t you look a sight._

He shifted a little, frowning, and Rachel just instinctively backed up, gave him his space. She took the chair that had been so nicely placed next to the him- the vigil spot- and dragged it over to the window instead, giving her a good view of him, the door, and the parking lot outside. Keeping watch. He’d appreciate that.

But the silence, the stillness, it gave her too much opportunity to rewind and remember everything that had happened tonight. Everything she’d… learned. And she just- she hated him. Declan. For everything he’d done, for everything he made Tim say and feel. Not just tonight, but before too. Before Rachel had been around to knock some sense into him. Everything he made Tim remember. Reveal to the rest of them.

She had just gotten to the _killed more than twenty-five people before I turned twenty-five_ , and had to breathe deep and slow with that (the men of the office all called him a kid now, but he _had_ been a kid then, and Jesus that hurt to think about), when the door opened quietly.

The man that came in- barely not a kid himself- wasn’t a doctor, wore a very nicely pressed suit. FBI, AUSA, he could be a shrink for all she knew. Whatever job it was, he was new at it. Rachel could tell the suit hadn’t been tailored, just bought off the rack. A rookie. He looked just as startled to see her as she to see him, then zeroed in on the star at her belt. “Deputy Brooks?”

She moved fast, getting up, crossing her arms, and blocking his path to Tim. “And you are?”

He pulled out his own badge, and she only needed a second to read the agency. “I’m Sergeant-”

“What would you say the likelihood is of us letting _anyone_ from CID _anywhere_ near him right now?” she asked, trying to sound as sweet as possible in that way that really meant ‘fuck you.’ “Three percent chance? Two?” She stepped closer, staring him down. “You assholes almost killed him.”

He surprised her, taking a step or two back, ducking his head. He was upset too. What? “Look, it’s Rachel, right?” Before she could answer, “I just need to talk to Tim. Please.”

She was surprised, confused, enough of both to calm down for a second. “He’s asleep,” she argued lamely.

And the CID guy smiled, just a little. “Nah, he’s been faking since I opened the door.”

There was a slight shifting behind her. “E tu, Judas,” Tim’s mumble was hazy, slurred, still dead-like. It was the same tone as before, brought Rachel back to the airfield, to Tim’s voice answering questions, being interrogated, being forced to reveal so much to too many people, and she flinched a little. And she saw ‘Judas’ notice it too.

“Jeremy,” he offered his hand to Rachel. “Sorry, I, uh-”

“Jeremy, brother of Sarah?” she guessed, connecting the dots, shaking his hand. “I didn’t know you were with CID.”

He shrugged, moved past her to stand next to Tim’s bed, looking down at him. “It’s kinda new. Tim, I- I didn’t know. About Declan, about this whole,” he waved a hand, “sting operation. I didn’t know.”

Rachel watched Tim as he processed the words through the concussion, whatever drugs were in that IV, and everything he’d been through tonight. “’S okay.”

Jeremy laughed, and it was the least happy laugh Rachel had heard this side of Art Mullen. “No, it’s really not. I’m so sorry, man. I-”

Tim waved his own hand, sort of. It got Jeremy quiet, at least. “Don’t.” It came out with an almost-question-mark at the end, a request. He didn’t have the strength for demands.

Jeremy snorted. “I’m not acting as spokesman for CID right now, it’s just me. _I’m_ sorry. Okay?”

Tim worked up the energy to raise an eyebrow, shrug a little, and then settled back into his… his nothing state. His empty state. His terrify-the-shit-out-of-Rachel state. “So you were there? Got the whole show?”

This time Jeremy and Rachel winced together. “Yeah, I-” Jeremy turned away, nervous, shook up himself. “Fuck, I didn’t ever think Declan was like that. He was- he was supposed to be one of the…” Exhaling heavily, Jeremy returned to Tim’s side. “Fuck.” 

Declan really had been important to them, she realized, watching them both. She was looking at two disappointed, disillusioned _boys_ right now. As if she didn’t need more and more reason to hate the man. “I’m sorry,” she said before she could stop herself. 

Jeremy offered a smile (Tim offered nothing) and another shrug. “It’s… Tim, he was fucked up. What he said to you was fucked up. You don’t have to be ashamed of- ” He lowered his voice some, not that it mattered. They all knew Rachel could hear everything anyway. “You feel guilty about shit, fine. We all have our shit. But all the good you’ve done outweighs it. All the people who are fucking alive right now because of you? Outweighs it. Forget what he said to you.”

Tim didn’t really laugh, but the air of it was there around him. “Forget it?”

“Okay, well,” Jeremy amended, “not forget. But don’t… don’t believe it. Don’t think he’s right.” He dropped the volume of his voice again. “Don’t let him fuck up your life. You’re doing good here.”

“Good?” Tim didn’t sound skeptical, or encouraging, or anything between. 

“This here? It’s- it’s good for you. Suits you. Don’t let him ruin it like he ruined other guys,” Jeremy grimaced hard again, and Tim obviously had the same thought Rachel did two seconds later.

“Who?” he asked, sitting up some. “Someone we-?”

Jeremy nodded. “Justin Miller. Milli.”

“Shit,” Tim breathed out, brow furrowing. “He wasn’t even that good a shot.”

He almost smiled. “But he was lost when he got back. Those guys preyed on it. Always needed to follow orders, no family. You know.”

“Shit,” Tim said again. “Has Milli killed anyone?”

“We don’t know yet. Apprehended about thirty minutes ago outside Chicago.”

Rachel stayed quiet, watching them both, hating Declan more, and then even more when Tim shrugged, subdued again, self-deprecating in that way that always had her gritting her teeth. “Looks like Declan had a type, huh?”

“No,” she said before she could stop herself, startling both guys. “Tim, I swear to… You’re not lost. You have people. And you don’t kill willingly. So shut up. You’re an idiot.”

Tim quirked an eyebrow, and Jeremy smiled that little bit again. “Told ya, brother,” he said. “This life suits you.”

Tim just lowered that eyebrow. “Huh. Declan said the same thing.”

No one really had a response to that. Probably why Tim had said it. Jeremy looked to Rachel, almost helpless, but she was at just as much of a loss. They both knew facets of Tim, but she was beginning to wonder if anybody would ever know him fully. And how much of that was his doing. How much on purpose.

And she wondered if he’d thought Declan was someone who did know him.

Jeremy checked his watch, then pulled out a business card, waved it in Tim’s face. “I have to go before they notice I slipped away. But this is my card, and-”

“I already know your number, man,” Tim grumbled, and if a little exasperation came through in the tone, Rachel just celebrated that there was any emotion there at all.

Jeremy smirked, maybe hearing it too. “This isn’t for you. My sister told me to give it to Rachel. And _Rachel_ is welcome to call me any time if she thinks _you_ need it.” He held it out over the bed, forcing Rachel to step up close to them and take the card.

Which she did, pocketing it smoothly and with a perfectly straight face. “Oh, I’ll do that.”

Tim grumbled again. “Will one or both of you leave so I can go back to pretending to be asleep?”

There was just enough of the normal bitchiness in his tone for Rachel to finally, blessedly, think that maybe things would turn out okay.

Maybe.

***

Art let out one of his loudest and longest sighs as soon as he hung up. Luckily it was just getting to be after business hours, and even more luckily, Raylan was there with glasses ready and waiting, nodding his head towards the cabinet.

Art sighed again, waved a hand in permission, and turned to Rachel waiting patiently on the couch. “Well?” she prompted.

He nodded. “They’re going at him with everything, plus kidnapping and attempted murder of a federal officer. He’s done. Going into a very small, locked room and never coming out. ”

“Good,” she spat with all the anger she’d built up since that kidnapping and attempted murder two days ago, and took one of the glasses from Raylan. He set another in front of Art before taking the seat between them.

“You talk to Tim today?” Art asked her.

She nodded, some of the anger draining away. “They’re finally releasing him. He was gonna take a cab home from the hospital, the idiot.” Shaking her head, “I’m picking him up in an hour or so.”

“And he’s…?” Raylan trailed off both casually and meaningfully.

Rachel hesitated. “He’s…” she trailed off too, then shrugged after another moment of thinking it over.

Raylan frowned. “He gonna be cleared to come back to work?” he directed towards Art this time.

“Off for the rest of this week,” Art answered. “Desk duty for at least next week. Then maybe light duty. Or we’ll see.” _If Tim even wants to come back…_

“Better stock up on coloring books,” he muttered. Art wasn’t quite sure where that came from, but Raylan and Tim were desk neighbors, there were probably things they just _knew_ that others didn’t.

“Be careful for awhile, okay?” he said instead. “This may require some sensitivity and tact. Not, you know, _you_.”

Raylan feigned shock. “I’m hurt by that insinuation.”

“I’m not insinuating shit. I’m saying- Raylan, be careful. Play nice.” The sheer normalcy of lecturing Raylan actually felt good, and he was pretty sure all three of them relaxed at that.

Raylan held up the hand not curled around a glass of bourbon. “I promise not to hurt his feelings.”

“Glad that’s settled. Will somebody pour me a drink now?” And there was Tim in the doorway to Art’s office, staring them all down, perfectly bored, before joining Rachel on the couch. 

Almost like normal. But his drawl was a little stilted and the laziness forced.

Raylan almost smiled as though he’d been expecting it. Maybe he had. Rachel startled for a second, guilty, then reverted to her natural state with Tim, good-natured glaring. Her hand went to his shoulder, squeezing in... apology? Comfort? Art was pretty sure neither, but that was all he was sure of.

He stared at Tim intently, still trying to piece all of this shit-puzzle together. “I thought you were supposed to wait for Rachel’s ride,” he settled on saying.

Tim shrugged. “She said not to take a cab home. Didn’t say I couldn’t take one anywhere else.”

“And you chose here?” Raylan was suspicious.

Tim nodded to the glasses, ignoring the disapproving eyes of Rachel and Art. “Bourbon’s here.”

A second to consider that. “Touché,” Raylan handed his glass over to him, like they were passing a peace pipe. Art supposed that was pretty apt. He also supposed that was Raylan’s way of playing nice.

Not that he approved. “Just for that, Raylan, you’re doing transport with Pardillo tomorrow,” Art poured himself another out of spite. Rachel passed the rest of hers (she never really did like bourbon as much as the rest of them) to Raylan, sat back to subtly regard Tim. Who ignored her regarding.

Raylan grimaced. “Pardillo smells funny.” 

“He’s a United States Deputy Marshal. He doesn’t smell funny. He-”

“Smells bad,” Rachel chimed in. “Like stale bread.”

“Like mold,” Raylan agreed. “You’re sticking me in a car with him all day?”

“What can I say,” Art grinned, leaned back lazily in his chair. “I have to punish him for something.”

Rachel smirked, Raylan glared, and all felt right in the world again. It was comfortably quiet for a few minutes when Tim tentatively spoke, looking down at his bourbon. “He saved my life once.”

They all, somehow, went even quieter, knowing he wasn’t talking about Pardillo. Art went still, prayed the other two would as well. Nobody wanted to disturb the moment of Tim finally talking.

He shrugged a little. “On a patrol in this little abandoned village. Or we thought it was abandoned. Small squad. Should’ve just been us for a few hours. Turns out Taliban had booby-trapped the whole fucking place. One of the guys in front of me stepped on an IED. It blew, and they started shooting.” His voice stayed even, reporting, giving a debrief.

“Your leg?” Rachel guessed quietly.

He nodded. “SOP- you establish cover and then help the wounded. Like in a plane- put your own mask on before assisting others.” He lifted one side of his mouth, almost a smile. “If he’d followed SOP, I’d be dead.”

Art closed his eyes, just for a second, hoping he opened them before Tim saw him react at all.

“He dragged me back to cover, yelling orders at everyone. I was busy telling myself that was it for me on this earth. Making my peace with whoever. He wouldn’t let me. He and Jeremy,” glancing at Rachel, “kept me from bleeding to death till the helo got there for the air lift. Was the last time I saw him before he walked in here last week.” Another shrug. “I owed him till two nights ago.”

“That why you let me take the gun away?” Rachel asked softly. He nodded a fraction of an inch. They were quiet again.

“Shit,” Raylan said suddenly. “That means I owe you like, what, four times over?”

So much for tact. But something in Art’s chest loosened up some when Tim smirked. His genuine, Raylan-drives-me-nuts-Boss-why-can’t-you-transfer-him-to-Alaska smirk. “At least.”

Rachel poked his shoulder. “I owe you three.”

Art held back the sigh this time. “And I owe you none, thank the Lord. These stats are worrying me. Marshal offices in cities twice this size don’t have problems like this.”

“Forget it Jake, it’s Harlan,” Raylan drawled. Tim snorted into his drink, hand going to his ribs for just a second, bracing.

Reminding Art he’d just gotten out of the hospital. “Finish your drink, Tim. I’m driving you home before any more stats fly around or more ribs get broken.”

“Ain’t broken,” he grumbled, obediently swallowing back the rest of his glass.

“And let’s keep it that way,” he said, overly bright and casual, grandiose, in that way that always annoyed his deputies to no end. Sure enough, Tim rolled his eyes, which both surprised and pleased him.

Rachel’s reaction put him in the same department- she looked so much like she wanted to argue, to drive Tim home herself. Protect him from _Art._ It amused him more than anything, but also made him a little… was happy the right word? Proud? Relieved? They really did look out for each other. And would, even after (and in spite of and because of) him and his retirement.

Raylan seemed deeply amused by it all, of course. He stood when Tim did (carefully, bracing again), just as he had at the airfield- there without crowding, and just grinned some more when Tim tried to warn him away with a look. “C’mon Junior, might as well milk this while we’re all being so accommodating.”

Tim kept his glare, but seemed disbelieving and lost enough for Art to sigh (again- he sighed so goddamn much because of these people, it’s a wonder he didn’t contract asthma). “Tim. I’m driving you home. It’s a nice, harmless gesture. Now what do you say?”

Tim glanced at Rachel, who (though still maybe reluctant) gave a quick nod. Tim’s turn to sigh. “Please and thank you, Boss.”

Art grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair. “Close enough.”

***

Tim already had his keys out by the time Art parked. “Thanks, Chief. I got it from here.”

Art wasn’t one for technology, but you know what- power locks sometimes came in handy. He relocked the truck right as Tim tried to get out. “What kind of gentleman would I be if I didn’t walk you to your front door?”

“Gentleman would’ve bought me dinner before I invited him up,” Tim grumbled. He unlocked his door, but Art just hit the power lock button again. “Chief-”

“Tim-”

“No elevator. Four flights of stairs. You think your knees’d hold up?” Tim was presenting it as a challenge, maybe forgetting how stubborn Art could be.

Well, he could remind him now. “Tell you what, I’ll race my knees versus your ribs, we’ll see who gets there first.”

Tim glanced back at his building with a wince, having somehow forgotten about his cracked ribs and bruised sternum. But, of course, he shook his head. “I can manage. Don’t need an escort for a few flights of stairs. Not like they’re gonna shoot me or anything.”

“Tim,” he said firmly. “I’m walking you up there.”

He still didn’t get it. “But-”

Art gave it one more round. “I’m allowed to be concerned about you. Indulge me tonight, I’ll go back to busting your balls in the morning, I promise.” He kept his tone soft this time. Tim was in _pain_ , and Art couldn’t do anything about that. Except be concerned.

Tim snorted, skeptical, almost like normal-Tim in that moment. But he was still too pale, too somber, not holding himself in that way he usually did- controlled, ready. No, now he was holding still like maybe he’d fall apart if he moved. He closed his eyes slowly, then opened them. “I’m leaving you if you fall behind.”

_No you won’t, it’s not in your nature,_ Art would’ve said any other time, any other day. But now, bringing up Ranger stuff just seemed like a deep dark fall into deep dark shit that his truck just couldn’t handle witnessing. So instead he unlocked both their doors and followed Tim inside.

He’d been to Tim’s place once or twice before, enough to know the kitchen was to the left, the bathroom down the hall to the right. Not surprised when Tim headed down the hall, Art turned left. To the coffee. “I’ll just make myself at home, then,” he called, chuckling a little when Tim slammed the door in response. He waited for the sound of the shower to start going, then got to work.

Coffee was brewed by the time the shower shut off, and Art could hear him shuffling around in the bedroom as he filled two mugs. He leaned back against the counter and waited.

And waited.

Two more minutes passed before Art came to the conclusion that Tim was not going to keep up with his hosting duties. He snagged both mugs and headed down the hall. The bedroom door was still half open- not like Tim was shutting him out- so Art toed it the rest of the way open and walked in. 

Tim had a corner apartment, which meant it came with a small concrete balcony off the bedroom. He had two ratty lawn chairs and a plant (Art wasn’t sure if it was weather-hardy or fake) out there, and he was hunched in one of those chairs now, looking out over the building’s courtyard. 

He was showered and changed into clean clothes, but didn’t really look any better. Not fresh, Art decided. Definitely still worn down. Both mugs in one hand, Art opened the sliding glass door and joined him on the balcony.

Tim’s eyes ticked over to him when he sat in the other seat, but only for a brief second. Art, on the other hand, took his time studying Tim- near drowning in a large hooded sweatshirt, slouched down a little, he looked for all the world like a college kid with a bad hangover. If only it were that simple.

Tim looked over again, this time pointedly at the two mugs Art held. He smirked, turning one over. Watched as Tim clasped it in one hand against his chest, the other arm still wrapped around his middle, like he was holding his bones together with a prayer. “How’re the ribs?”

“Fine.”

“How’s the head?”

“Still attached.”

“And inside the head?”

No snappy comeback this time. Tim glared a little, not directly at Art of course, more out into the courtyard, but the glare was there.

Undeterred, Art stretched his legs out, angling his body to the exact opposite of Tim’s slouch. “You know a lotta people are going to ask that for the next few days. You’re not stupid.”

“I’m not?”

“I reckon sometimes.”

Tim’s mouth quirked up just the littlest bit. Which, for Tim, was probably a real smile. He sipped his coffee quietly for a full minute before speaking. “ _Because I could not stop for death, he kindly stopped for me._ ”

Art frowned, turned to him. “What’s that?”

“Dickinson,” Tim shrugged one shoulder, lifting it an inch, holding it, dropping it back down.

“And what’s it mean?”

“Hell if I know. I’m stupid.”

“Tim.”

Tim actually did smile this time, tilted his head back to look up at the sky. “I’m not Declan. I’m not a… And I’m not Colt, either. I’m not suicidal.”

“I didn’t actually think you were,” Art settled down again. 

“But?” Tim glanced at him knowingly, waiting for the rest of it.

He conceded that. “But suicidal and self-destructive ain’t the same thing.”

Tim was quiet. “Guess that’s true.” He took another drink, grimaced. “You make shitty coffee.”

“Tim.”

“You think I’m self-destructive?”

“Well,” Art mused lazily. And carefully. “With you, I’m not entirely sure I’d be able to tell. Or, hell, if I’d have any expertise to judge.”

Though Art was fairly sure it'd be awhile before he got that scene of Tim daring Declan to shoot him out of his memory.

“You really wouldn’t,” Tim said dryly.

He conceded that too. “But I do have concerns. And when it’s not my own problems or Raylan’s bullshit, it’s easier for me to care. So I’d just... rather you not get self-destructive.”

Tim huffed a short laugh, shifted into what seemed like only a slightly more comfortable position. “ _He kindly stopped for me_ ,” came the murmur.

Art looked over at him sharply. “Tim?”

He half-shrugged again. “I’m not looking to die. I don’t particularly want to. But shit like this just keeps on happening, so...” He waved a hand vaguely, it seemed to hurt less than shrugging. “So there’s that.”

“You any closer to some sort of breakdown than you were three days ago?” Art asked.

It got another smile from him. “I don’t feel so, but who’s to tell.”

They drank their shitty coffees in silence, because what else could they do. Then Art turned, took the mug from Tim’s hands, and set it on the ground. He faced Tim, looking him square in the eye.

“If you want to breakdown, whatever? You could,” he said confidently, calmly. “You could probably do it better than most, and I doubt anyone could stop you. Though I promise you I and a few others would try. But,” he leaned in more. “If you want to be okay, you’d do that just fine too. I believe that.” Insistent a little, surprising himself. “You’d be okay.”

Tim had stopped looking him in the eye halfway through, but he wasn’t tense, moving away. He was listening. “Well, ’s good that I got options.”

Art nodded. “At least two.” He sat back in the folding chair, and they fell silent again. Just breathing. 

“You want to hug?” Tim kept his eyes on the sky getting lighter.

“You ever ask me that again, I’ll shoot you.”

“Rachel would want us to hug.”

“Rachel. Ain’t. Here,” he grumbled. He reached down again and handed Tim’s mug back to him when it became apparent that reaching down for it himself was gonna hurt too much. Tim grumbled a thanks back at him. They sat in silence again, and it was so much more comfortable that Art couldn’t help but smile into his coffee.

So when Tim spoke again, Art was ready and waiting. “Worst shit of my life’s already happened, right? Can’t see much worse than I’ve already seen.” He didn’t _really_ sound like he was asking for reassurance, of course. He wouldn’t dare do that.

But Art was pretty sure the need was there. “Worst shit’s happened,” he confirmed. “And you’re still here. That means something.” At Tim’s shrug, “You don’t have to be ashamed of any of it, son.” Which reminded him, “Way back when, with your father and your brother,” and shit he hated bringing that up solely for the look Tim couldn’t quite hide, “that was-”

“Can’t see much worse than I’ve already seen,” he repeated. “Right?”

“Right.” He blew out a breath slowly (not a sigh, not a sigh). “You’re still here,” his turn to repeat something. “That’s an admirable thing. I’m…” Damn it, Mullen, just say it. “Shit. I’m proud of you. Okay?”

“Shit,” Tim echoed. “If I promise to never put myself in danger ever again, can you promise to never say that ever again?”

“We’ll draw up a contract, I suppose,” he mused, ridiculously grateful and relieved. Hiding all of that, of course. 

“He told me once,” Tim cleared his throat. “Told me Army doesn’t help you when you’re out. Doesn’t stay with you forever.”

Art turned those words over in his head. Bastard had proved that right, or tried to. Tried to take over the minds of how many young men who’d gotten out and had nothing else. Was it Tim’s luck (or lack thereof), his stubbornness, or his current job that kept him from that path? Was is Art and Rachel (and even Raylan)?

Or maybe, he surmised, watching Tim force himself to finish the shitty coffee without bothering to hide his cringe from Art, maybe Art had just gotten lucky- gotten a good one. “You regret leaving it behind, becoming a Marshal?” he asked.

Another Tim-smile. “I regret quoting poetry to you.”

For the first time, Art realized the hoodie he was wearing was his USMS one, not the battered, torn Army-issued one. He smiled, huffed a laugh, reached out and clasped Tim on the back of the neck, just for a second or two. As warmly as he dared, as long as he dared. “Close enough.”

***

__

_Cuff links and hub caps_  
 _trophies and paperbacks_  
 _it's good transportation_  
 _but the brakes aren't so hot_  
 _neck tie and boxing gloves_  
 _this jackknife is rusted_  
 _you can pound that dent out_  
 _on the hood_

_a tinker, a tailor_  
 _a soldier's things_  
 _his rifle, his boots full of rocks_  
 _oh and this one is for bravery_  
 _and this one is for me_  
 _and everything's a dollar_  
 _in this box_  


-”A Soldier’s Things” by Tom Waits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before I get to thank yous, can I just say how fucking awesome (spoiler for latest Justified episode-----) Tim and Boyd’s Scrabble game was? Can I? Can I? And it being based off a Jacob ad-lib? And how Boyd was actually keeping score (and did they decide which one of them would be scorekeeper??)? And how it so totally works for my criminal-Tim AU series, that they’d play Scrabble together? All these things? Yes? The look on Tim’s face right after Boyd asks him if he wants to challenge (all in the eyebrow raise, baby)? And Boyd indicated to Raylan that Tim had told him about the Crowes- WHAT ELSE DID BOYD AND TIM TALK ABOUT? I’m just… jesus h. christ, maybe seven seconds of a scene and I am beside myself. That’s one of the beauties of this show, right? The badass-and-oh-shit moments mixed so easily with tiny offbeat character throwaway moments. I love it.
> 
>  
> 
> ANYWAY. Thanks to everyone who has commented, kudos’d, or just read this story. Always, always, always means a lot to me. It’s a fun sandbox to play in, and y’all are fun playmates :)


End file.
